


A Wolf Tamed

by Always_Bottom_Derek



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Derek Hale, Come Swallowing, Derek is not a Werewolf (Maybe), Deucalion is Not Entirely Blind in This, Dry Orgasm, Heavy BDSM, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Non-Consensual Bondage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Rape/Non-con Elements, Scarred Stiles, Sexual Violence, Shibari, Spanking, Spitroasting, Wartime Violence, Watersports, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2018-11-14 05:59:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11201904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Bottom_Derek/pseuds/Always_Bottom_Derek
Summary: Family killed, village destroyed, Derek is caught in the crushing cogs of an expanding, bloodthirsty empire. That is, until he catches the eye of a certain General.Once the General claims Derek as his own however, the captive wolf warrior might find himself thinking war is a far kinder master.





	1. Prologue: Awakening

Derek's throat felt hot, raw. Each breath burned. These were the first sensations he registered as he slowly came back into consciousness. Whether this was the result of the bitter wine they’d poured down him, or all the other things he had been forced to swallow, he did not know.

His eyes felt gritty as he opened them. Squinting in the dim glow of the tent, initially he could make out only vague shapes, amber-hued in the flickering candle light. With his dawning awareness, the rest of his body returned to him and he realized his throat was not the only place left fevered and abraded.

When Derek did not immediately recognize where he was, he wondered if he was under the spell of another one of his ‘forgettings.’ Then hard and too fast, everything came back into focus.

First was the face of the girl next to him, her head lolling awkwardly backwards. Her eyes rolled back into their sockets so that only the whites showed. Clearly she was gone, out of her senses. He thought perhaps even dead, until a small moan escaped her dry parted lips. Her breath was quick and shallow.

Her small breasts, covered with the marks of brutal mouths, rose and fell in shaky cadence . She had been tied face up to a silver platter ingeniously crafted with handles to secure her restraints at every critical point.

Derek understood now he occupied a similar tray, but he’d been strapped facing downwards, knees bent, calves bound to thighs, legs spread, ass up. Pulled into a posture of prostration, his arms bound together and stretched out in front of him. The two of them, he and the girl, had been part of a dozen or more such platters. ‘Choice dishes,’ the best and most recent spoils of war, served to the Commander's captains as reward for their recent victories.

Remembering now all too clearly how they’d been carried in and set upon low tables in the Commander's quarters, Derek had been acutely aware at the time he was the only male amongst this smorgasbord of flesh. His thick limbs and heavy muscle stood out plainly among all the finer flesh. At twenty-two he’d been a man for six years now, passing through the ritual of manhood at sixteen. As such he had wanted to be strong despite his vile circumstances.

Initially he had tried to comfort the now gone girl, Paige, as best he could. Her eyes round with fear, they’d locked gazes at the start once their trays had been settled. She had breathed her name out to him in the few moments of quiet before the festivities started, her lungs so pressed with fear it was barely audible. He’d offered her his then as well, his own voice not much steadier. Outside this exchange of names, they shared a nonverbal commiseration with each other, until the horrors of the feast had overwhelmed them both.

Selfishly, Derek was glad Paige could no longer see him; his breath catching, shoulders shaking as he tried not to weep. Nothing he could have ever imagined would have prepared him for this experience. He had been battered in every orifice. His hair was matted with the soldiers' seed, his stomach full to vomiting with it. He could feel the dried slick of them married with his own blood, sheathing the back of his thighs. His nipples had been rubbed raw, his back and buttocks now a multi-hued tapestry of bites and blows.

It seemed his every muscle, cramped from the hours of bondage, cried for release, as did his cock, which to his great shame had remained stiff throughout his ordeal. Actually, to his horror and the soldiers' delight, he had come several times during his ravishing and it was this reality, more than any physical pain that threatened his eyes with tears.

Around him, Derek’s ears continued to be tortured with the grunts of still rutting soldiers, high on the aphrodisiac of war. Beneath this, beyond his narrow scope of sight, pulsed the whimpers and moans of girls. Derek closed his eyes and tried to push it all from his mind. He looked within himself for his sacred spaces, tried to see his family - the elders telling stories around the common fire. But the visions he sought did not appear, instead he conjured more recent memories of the village, smoke and swords, the screams of the dying, and the harrowing journey that had brought him here, to this place of abomination.

 _Abomination,_ he tasted the word again considering all that had been done to him. He was a hunter, a wolf warrior, a man and yet…

Confronted with how his body had responded, not to just this night of violation, but to all that had happened to him since he had been captured. A dark flower of conviction blossomed in his seed-filled gut. He hung his head down further, as low as it could go in his present position.

With all that he had felt then, what did that make him now?


	2. Preparation

Casting his mind about to find something to dwell on besides his bound and battered body, very few things caught. Everything was hazy. He could recall only bits of his capture and his travel to the conquerors’ camp already seemed like the fragments of a dark dream. Then he alighted on something and his recall returned with startling clarity.

Unfortunately, it was an uncomfortable recollection at best and try as he might, once sparked Derek could not discard it.

What he remembered in all too vivid detail was the preparation process before the soldiers' 'feast.' As the images of it flashed through his mind, his fevered body burned brighter.

Taken from the prisoners' confines in the conquerors’ camp he’d fought the guards who’d pulled him out of the pens into the larger grounds of the slaves' hive. Shackled, and weakened from the events of the past days, his thrashings had been to no avail. The three large men who’d come to gather him had all but carried him into a clearing where they’d secured his chains, tethering him face down, bent over the edge of a heavy wood table.

His feet were kicked apart, each ankle chained to one of the table’s stout legs. And as soon as he was held fast, arms spread wide, his hips lashed to the wood where he was bent, a group of servants rushed in and began cleaning him.

Tied now to his tray, Derek’s aching head dipped lower and his tear-stained face flushed with shame as the memory unfurled itself: they’d not been content with merely scrubbing his skin, but had washed his insides as well.

What an uncomfortable sensation, that was.

He’d panicked when the oiled neck of a wine skin was pushed into his unexpecting hole and warm herbalized water pumped into him. He’d gasped and tried to wriggle away from the invasion, but the chains binding him had held fast. Even so, the largest of the slaves pushed his head down immobilizing him.

The big man's hands had rested heavily, but not cruelly on him, cupping his jaw and the back of his head. Still, the right side of his face was pressed into the table's surface with such pressure he was sure his skin bore the wood’s grain when he was finally able to lift his head again. The large slave made soft sounds to Derek the way one would speak to a frightened animal.

When the filling had stopped, Derek had allowed himself to be calmed until the cramps began to roil through his bowels. Still, the man soothed and even seemed pleased when, to his great shame, he could no longer hold his soil.

He’d been unhappily grateful when no comment had been made of his mess by his captors. Another slave merely stepped up to quickly rinse his trembling legs clean. The slaves had chuckled a bit however, when the rub of the coarse cloth between his cheeks and over his balls had drawn a startled squawk from him.

It was no less humiliating when this process was repeated several times until Derek was left shaking and empty. The vacancy in his guts ironically left them filled him with a strange unease.  
Once satisfied he was clean enough he was let up from the table cautiously. Several other attendants appeared then and between them they further scrubbed his body.

This external cleansing had been pleasurable at least. Reeking with the filth of battle, traveling for days packed with others in enclosed wagons, and then being thrown into the crowded cages of the prisoners' ward with barely enough water to drink, let alone bathe had been making him crazed.Derek had always hated being dirty, something that he was often chided about in the village, where washing for most meant standing outside their shelter during a deluge.

Where he lay bound now with every muscle screaming, the thought of his destroyed village forced Derek to retreat further behind his closed his eyes and to recall instead the groan-worthy pleasure he’d felt when the slaves had begun washing his hair.

From the time he’d joined the village, among his fairer colored clanmates his hair had always been a topic of conversation. His dark mane, thick and unruly surrounded his angular face and covered his neck, though he kept it cut shorter than most of his adopted kin.

A muscle spasmed in Derek’s thigh, pulling him from the depths he sunk into. He fought against the bite of the cramp, turning his mind back to earlier that day.

Too soon the soothing cascades of hot scented waters ceased. Then his groomers dried his hair with thick cloths. They brush out his wild waves and at intervals plaited the longest bits of it into tiny braids.

As if it were any comfort, Derek eventually realized he was not the only one undergoing this process, there were other tables where a similar procedure was being performed on a number of female prisoners.

These preparations had taken place in out in the open and though modesty was scarce where he’d come from, once he realized his company Derek been deeply embarrassed by his helpless nakedness. His shame only deepened as the compound’s other slaves slowed down from the hurry of their work to gawk as they passed the cleansing ritual being performed on Derek and the other prisoners

Other slaves and some soldiers not gainfully occupied, gathered on the periphery of the event to watch and gossip, animatedly pointing and chatting. Derek knew that the intricate tattoo between his shoulders would be of particular interest.

It was as if he had been born with it, since as far back as he could remember it had been there. Because of its unique design everywhere he’d traveled it gave others cause to speculate, this much at least he was used to.

What he was not used to was being handled like some prized livestock.

The slaves preparing him… for what he could have never imagined then, made a show of him. Even bruised as he was now, he could still feel the ghost of their grasp as they grabbed his heavy sac and pulled, showing his balls to the gathered crowd. When his cock had begun to harden at this rough treatment he’d been mortified. He’d dropped his eyes and tried to wish himself away as his cock was slapped and grabbed and people giggled and gasped in mock horror at the filled size of it.

Derek didn’t have to lift his head as body was manipulated to know how avidly the spectators consumed his shame. He felt the weight of multiple eyes on him. And when he flickered his gaze up beneath his long lashes for the occasional glimpse he caught some gazing on with mild curiosity, others burning with lust, and more than a few casting sideways glances of envy.

Continuing on in this environment of spectacle, Derek had been appalled when his attendants brought out a razor and then began to shave him. Not his beard, as he’d initially imagined. No, this they trimmed impossibly close to his skin. It was his body hair they’d shaved. All of it.

He’d been further chagrined when it became apparent that his heavy furring drew almost as much interest as his cock. He did not need to understand his captors' language to know that this was so. He’d experienced similar occasions coming into manhood as he dwelt among his adopted tribe.

He’d tried to buck away at first, and then again when once the easiest of the shaving had been completed and heavy hands had palmed the cheeks of his ass and pulled them apart. His struggles had immediately ceased however when the straight razor’s blade had pressed into the valley of his ass to bare him. He’d barely even breathed at all when his heavy sac had been gripped, the wrinkled skin stretched for scraping.

Worse than the shaving however, was when the groomers began oiling his flesh after.

Though he thought from the outset of this display that it was impossible for him to feel any more revealed than he was, he quickly found out he’d been wrong. Free of hair his body was suddenly a thousand times more sensitive. Even the barest brush of wind against his skin tickled his nude hide. Not since he was a babe did Derek imagine he’d felt so vulnerable.

In his denuded state, the early summer sun was his first assailant: in the camp’s open spaces burned so much more brightly than in the forest and Derek's hairless flesh quickly began to suffer from its rays. So, when the slaves surrounding him began to rub him down with soothing scented oils, initially he’d been overcome with a sense of relief.

Soon, however, under the touch of so many hands another sensation prevailed: arousal.  
Though his cock had lost some of its girth during the shaving, semi-erect since the start of the cleansing, Derek had been putting his energy into fighting his renegade member rather than his bonds, in a vain attempt to keep from getting hard again. Being oiled up, however, his body openly rebelled against him and he lost the battle.

This second ‘uprising’ caused a new wave of conversation to swell around him.

Here, finally he’d pushed through his mortification to discovered his fury. Derek roared and thrashed wildly (as wildly as his bindings would allow anyway). He was shocked to realize that that rather than making things better, the bite of the restraints as he struggled actually made him harder.

He was momentarily stunned to stillness at the feel his erection pulsing, to look down between his legs and see the red dirt beneath his feet spotted, his cock leaking. He had never known such feelings.

The sudden noise of and movement of his futile rebellion caused some in the slaves surrounding him to shriek and draw back. As his handlers attempted to regain control of the situation, Derek saw a, veiled figure emerge from a tent at the back of the crowd.

As this person moved towards them, he noticed that the man carried himself in a slightly peculiar way, his left arm hugged tightly to his body. When the figure drew nearer, talking evaporated into whispers and slaves began to immediately disperse. The few present soldiers too.

Soon the preparation space was all but empty, except for Derek, his attendants, and the newcomer.

Derek struggled to regain his composure, warily eyeing the oddly garbed young man approaching. He had seen him once before, the day he’d arrived in the camp. As he been unloaded from the prisoners' wagons the ungodly warrior who had directed the destruction of his family, the one who denied him a man's death, had shown up at the foot of the wagon and had attacked him. And it was this stranger drawing close who had stopped that soldier from further brutalizing him.

The man wore a different tunic than most of the people Derek had observed in this part of the camp. It was a slightly finer fabric, smoky blue gray in color, rather than the earth tones usually seen. It extended farther down his lean legs and higher up his neck then the other slaves' coverings and it had extraordinarily long sleeves. It was an ill-fitting frock for this early summer heat.

The young man wore a small round cap to which the ends of a short, sheer veil were affixed. This allowed only his eyes and the bridge of his nose to clearly be seen. Earlier, at the time of Derek's altercation with the soldier, he had been dressed similarly.

The stranger had called out his orders from a distance so Derek never had the chance to really see him. Initially, he'd thought his shrouded savior an apparition until he had spoken. He remembered feeling as shocked as the attacking soldier had looked up when the young man called out to stop the beating. He had never heard a voice so firm emanate from a body so slight.

Standing before him now, despite his concealments, the man appeared younger than he, but it was apparent in the way that people responded to him (as the soldier had) that he had a certain authority.

Close up, the color of the young man's clothes set off the paleness of his skin. The youth stood slightly sidled to him, conversing in soft but crisp tones with the largest of the slaves. At the same time, though his head did not turn, his right eye was scrutinizing Derek.

Defiantly, Derek reciprocated with his own unabashed evaluation. The visible skin not obscured by the veil flawless but for a freckling of moles. Through the thin fabric covering his face one could still make out the stranger’s general features: high cheekbones, a strong but narrow chin, and a slightly pouting, promising lower lip.

These features matched his figure, smaller, but well proportioned and leanly muscled. The fingers of his right hand were long and tapered, just peeking out from the hem of his sleeve. His left hand was hidden in a pocket of his tunic.

But, it was the young man's eye, the one that watched him so carefully, that had Derek mesmerized. Framed by long dark lashes, it was a startling amber hue, rich like honey liqueur. But more than this, there was something in its expression. It seemed like deep pool enticing Derek in. He’d felt sure at the time however, if he entered its depths he would soon find himself drowning.

Derek surprised himself, lowering his eyes and breaking their gaze. Despite the fact he was the one being violated, he felt oddly ashamed of his outburst, and suddenly, simultaneously aware that the boy's (he had decided he was too pretty to be a man yet) close study of him had only renewed his aching arousal.

If the other noticed, he did not show it. In fact, that was part of what made him so disconcerting. He did not look at Derek with measure or lust, nor with cruelty or laughter. Instead there seemed to be only an open interest, and could he say it, perhaps compassion?

The others Derek had become used to in recent days, but this?

He abruptly felt overcome. He was unfamiliar with the emotion welling up in him under this young man's quiet scrutiny, but whatever it was, in his vulnerable state he did not know if he could bear it.

Fortunately, when he raised his eyes again, his benefactor was looking only at the large slave, addressing him in earnest. His tones were not harsh, but though Derek did not understand the language, he intuited by the way he pointed to another tent behind them, that his handlers were being chided for keeping him out in the sun.

As he’d watched this exchange, a slight breeze picked up one of the strands that strayed from beneath the boy's cap framing his face and it was then that Derek, noticed the long braid, another anomaly. Though overall, the boy's hair seemed cropped remarkably close, the braid started at the base of the youth's skull and then disappeared down the neck of his shirt. A gesture revealed that the boy had run it down the sleeve of his right arm and that it was wrapped several time about the wrist.

There was a barely contained energy emanating from the veiled youth, as though he his stillness was barely restrained. The only motion outside the occasional nod of his head however was found in the way he held the tip of the thick braid in his hand so that his fingers could absently stroke it. While it was clear the motion was habitual, there was something in the way the boy's long fingers moved that caused Derek to find this unconscious action extremely sensual.

His unruly erection twitched in response.

Despite his embarrassment, Derek found himself growing restless. He gazed hard, brow dipped and frown firm on his lips willing the boy to look back at him. He wanted tear away the veil to see the perfection of the youth’s whole face, to feel this strange figure's full gaze upon him. To visually connect suddenly seemed all important and he sought it like some form of blessing.

His body's new sensation of emptiness increased tenfold then, when the boy, apparently finished with the conversation, turned and walked away without so much as a backward glance. Derek was so affected by this dismissal he did not even try to struggle as his handlers dragged him away into the shadows of the looming tent behind him.


	3. Procession

Lost in his memories Derek started at a sudden smart clap on his ass. His reprieve was over, clearly. He wanted to shout but knew it would only egg the soldier standing behind him on. Besides, his throat was so raw he imagined even if he’d been able to form words his voice was likely all but gone right now anyway.

This didn’t stop him from groaning though when rough, calloused hands spread his stinging cheeks apart and a thick finger was thrust into his cum filled hole.  Another finger was added, the abused maw of his ass pulled open even wider. Derek’s body burned with shame when he heard the soldier hawk and felt himself spit into.

A new burn took over his flesh when a moment later a large cock was shove into him and the man began thrusting without any hesitation. Tears filled Derek’s eyes as he was rutted into mercilessly. More tears came when his traitorous cock hardened and began to drip once more under this new onslaught.

The soldier pummeled him with such force his platter was pushed forward and over the edge of the table he sat on. Just when Derek was sure he was going to topple off a large hand seized his bangs.

“Here, let me hold him for you.”

An appreciative grunt was all the response the newcomer received but he took no offense. Derek’s head was rocked back by the slap of a hot, leaking cock against his damp cheek. He closed his watering eyes and gritted his teeth as he was hit in the face repeatedly.

“Come on, pretty. Open up that mouth of yours.”

The hand in Derek’s hair twisted tighter pulling his head up as high as his bindings allowed.  Behind him the soldier assaulting his ass added his thumb. This new tearing tightness made Derek gasp out in pain. The moment his mouth opened, a fat cock was shove between his lips.

“Bite it whore and I’ll knock out every one of your teeth.”

Tied as he was there was no other option than to obey. Derek opened his mouth and tried to hold it that way even as the man’s stout cockhead bruised the back of his throat. After a time however, gagging around the dick in his mouth his bangs were pulled hard once more.

“Don’t just lay there like a corpse, or I’ll make you one. Suck it, bitch. I want to see those cheeks hollow.”

For a moment Derek considered holding his assailant to the promise in his threat. Death would be preferable to being ravished like this. Even more so than living with the shame after, if he survived. If he perished though, there would be no possibility of revenge not only for this debasing, but for the destruction of his village as well.

Holding to the thin hope of wreaking future havoc, Derek closed his eyes and sucked. His head spun and his jaw came perilously close to snapping shut when a hard blow struck his cheek.

“Open those eyes of yours and look at me when I fuck you. You should know what a true man looks like. What you’ll never be again.”

Derek lifted his eyes to his rapist. The soldier was coarse looking and battle scarred. Between blinks of his blurry eyes he forced himself to memorize his face, vowing he would see him brought to his knees if he lived past this night.

The soldier leered down at him with a jagged, broken toothed grin as he ravaged his mouth.

Never would Derek forget that smile; it would haunt him until he personally erased it. Now, however, he couldn’t bring himself to look at the beast looming above him a second longer. Though he kept his gaze directed upwards, his body violently seesawing between his impalers, Derek faded.

His mind drove him back to where he’d left off, the last of his memories about being prepared for this night of horror.

Once he was taken from the grounds and led inside the tent, it took his eyes several moments to adjust from the bright sun of the camp to the canopy's dim interior. With his vision swimming from this shift, his first clear sensation was smell; the air surrounding him heavy with fragrance: spices and sweets and the smoke of roast meat.

Nothing he had known in the village came close to the heady aromas filling his nostrils, but he had an uneasy sense of recognition and felt a vague, disconcerting nostalgia. Derek experienced a sudden vision of cool stone halls, of fire-lit hearths and the clatter of dishes. He could feel his memory stirring and he resisted, as his previous experiences of "rememberings" tended to leave him groggy and disoriented and he could not afford in his situation to have his senses dulled.

He shook his head in an attempt to rattle his fractured mind back into place.

It was easier than usual to distract himself: his keepers had not fed him that morning and in response to the rich smells his empty insides began murmuring their hunger. These complaints were stopped short however; when Derek could clearly see again. His hunger quickly devoured by his fear.

The room was filled with tables, each one laden with silver platters. While scene before him was like nothing he had ever encountered in the simple fare of the village’s feasts, somehow he knew what most everything was.

On some of the trays exotic fruits, ripened to perfection and weeping their sweet sap, were arranged in displays of glorious colors. Other platters sported full carcasses of swine and sheep, deer and pheasant, glistening with spicy rubs and marinades, stuffed with vegetables, nuts, and wine soaked breads. There were pastries and confections too, globes of sugar, blown like glass, custards and jellies.

And amidst all these delicacies were the women who, like him had recently been through the same ritual cleaning. They were also on trays, tied in enticing arrangements, their skin shining, eyes flashing. Most had been roughly gagged, though this would only be temporary: once feast was due to start, their mouths were loosed as their service was picked up and carried by a stream of slaves.

Their wails would be the music that accompanied the procession up the banks to the quarters of the General.

Derek went wild, once he realized that there was one tray left unoccupied and that he was to join these poor souls, trussed and served up to the Gods only knew who.

Due to his lapses in memory, he had no solid recollection of any people beyond the forest village where he had spent the last four years of his life. But tales of other tribes had been shared around the fire. Perhaps, as some of the stories he’d heard, these conquering hordes were cannibals. It would make sense that they cleaned him out, if he was to be eaten alive.

Fueled by this horrible possibility it took five slaves to subdue him.

Derek had forced himself to be silent for much of his ordeal. He'd wished to conduct himself with honor, but this was too much. His reserve shattered and he shouted the most colorful curses he could come up with. Despite his struggles, he soon found himself trussed tightly to his silver stocks.

Once secured, they forced yet another indignity upon him, a skein of oil with a long narrow mouth was brought, inserted into him, and his ass filled with the slick substance. He was literally frothing at the mouth when they finally gagged him. Fortunately someone had the foresight to temporarily secure the captives' trays to the tables, otherwise Derek would have bucked himself off and been crushed by the heavy platter.

As the feast's procession was about to begin, the veiled youth reappeared gliding into the tent. With his appearance the frantic activities of the other slaves immediately slowed down. The noise in the room faded to a quiet hum.

Carriers picked up their platters and met their apparent leader near the tent's entrance. He looked over each tray carefully no matter its contents before waving it out the door. Almost instantly there was a strained conversation between him and the slave who had been shouting orders the loudest before his appearance.

Their conflict occurred when the young man removed the gag from the first human "dish" to leave the canopy. He had whispered into the ear of the quivering young woman and had poured some dark liquid from a flask into her mouth. Apparently, the "Shouter" did not feel these actions appropriate. Derek was distracted from his thrashing momentarily; watching how skillfully his previous benefactor overrode the irate slave’s objections.

As his own tray was carried up towards the front, he was disgusted with the way his stomach clenched, with the sweat that was dripping off his chin and pooling in between his shoulder blades. Derek did not think it was possible for him to experience any greater depths of fear, although he'd had this feeling several times since his capture and each time unfortunately, he had found himself proven wrong.

Fear it seemed to him now was a bottomless entity.

When they reached the veiled youth, Derek had to strain to look up at him because of how he had been tied. In this position, he was able to glimpse the features under the veil and it was here that he saw the other’s entire face for the first time.

The boy read his shocked expression, but his own did not change. Instead, he was surprisingly tender as he untied the cloth gag from Derek's mouth and used it to wipe his face. He looked at him with such seriousness, Derek inexplicably found himself wanting to reassure this startling creature that no matter what happened, he would be all right.

Instead he was amazed to hear himself addressed, although heavily accented, in his village’s tongue.

"Drink this wolf warrior for it will soften the blows. And remember, that although tonight might seem to endure for a hundred years, in reality it is still but one night."

With that, the flask was put to Derek's lips. The elixir was bitter and burned as he swallowed it.

Derek jumped when the youth suddenly reached down with his right hand below his trembling belly and gave his cock a squeeze. He flushed with shame that he was still painfully, ragingly hard despite his terror. Then, just as unexpectedly, the hand beneath him was pulled back. It reached up and gently swept a lock of hair from his eyes.

In the midst of all that was occurring, more than the touch to his cock, this act felt like an extreme intimacy.

When the young man leaned down, his veil tickled the side of Derek’s face. Sweet herb-smelling breath  whispered into a burning ear, "You will be strong."

With this, Derek's platter was hefted onto the shoulders of two huge slaves and he was carried out into the lengthening shadows of dusk.

As he was whisked towards the feast he realized the multiple ways that the bitter wine was working, he found his throat numb, and that though now ungagged he was having difficulty forming the words of protest that rose within him. Not long after exchanging names with Paige, the drug would be fully realized in his veins, making it so that only the basest of noises escaped from him.

Other aspects of the elixir he’d been given took hold much more quickly, however. Almost immediately Derek had felt the layers of his fear being stripped from his mind, but the peace of this sensation had not lasted. For he discovered beneath these another emotion: a hungry anticipation, and this realization had devastated him as he was carried into the flickering lights of the Commander's tent.

Snapped back into the moment by a flood of bitter seed in his mouth, Derek gagged and gurgled around the flow.

Returning to himself this time his mind was clearer than it had been since he’d been brought into the commander’s tent. His insides ached in the most excruciating ways, the effects of the drug were clearly waning. Behind him the soldier in his ass was rutting furiously, making the bestial sounds of a man on the verge of cumming.

Despite the weakening aphrodisiac, Derek was horrified when his balls hitched and his cock spat again in tortured pleasure. His burning channel clenched tight around the cock impaling him, his battered hole gasped wetly as it was choked with seed just as thoroughly as his throat.

Derek’s stomach lurched in rebellion at all these conflicting sensations. Mouth still filled with cock, cum frothed from the corners of his mouth and ran in dripping strands from his chin. The man in his mouth pulled back just far enough for Derek to draw a greedy breath.

“Keep that down, pretty. Swallow it up like a good whore.”

Derek did as he was ordered, if only to keep himself from drowning.


	4. Feast

General Deucalion surveyed the scene within in his quarters. Though he’d long ceased grieving the loss of his one eye, the debauchery of the night had been so splendid he couldn’t help but wish for unimpaired vision so that he could have drunk in its sights even more deeply.

On the frontlines and during the battles the General lived as spare and primitive an existence as his foot soldiers. But here, at their secured post, the hub from which his troops radiated, his accommodations in contrast were palatial.

Though its floor plan was open, Deucalion’s tent was large enough to house four rooms. There was a sleeping area in one quarter, in another stood a large heavy table where he occasionally took meals, but that more often than not, was used for planning and strategic meetings. Another quarter had been set aside for sitting and "relaxing," and the final one had been designated for the careful storage of his personal gear, and as a place where he could privately perform his “sword meditations” and his “magic,” the specific sacred rituals of his line.

Normally, his abode reflected at a glance the nature of its occupant with nothing frivolous in its interior. The furnishings were spare, the few pieces strong and unadorned. But tonight, for the celebration, his tent had been transformed. The floors had been carpeted with heavy pelts. Glowing candles hung in ornamental fixtures from the ceiling. The seating area was afloat with silken cushions while low tables meandered throughout the interior, each meant for dining or supporting a rare display - be it floral, edible, or sexual.

Deucalion reminded himself to commend his first servant, Stiles, later on the spectacular effect.

At present, only his sleeping quarters remained untouched and these hidden from view by a series of tapestried curtains. Behind these veils stood a large heavy bed, its surface a simple smooth-grained wood with the exception of a dozen or so solidly embedded steel rings at intervals along its surface. Its tick consisted of a thick, soft fabric stuffed on a regular rotation with new straw and sweet smelling mosses.

It was an indulgence, Deucalion knew, but when one was to be out in the field for more than a year at a time, he supposed a few amenities were in order.

A few feet out from the foot of the bed, two stout wooden columns had been set deep into the ground. They sported similar iron rings. This arrangement within his sleeping quarters had been a convention of his for so long its setup had become automatic. Though, so far on this campaign, the purpose of these structures had not been realized.

Despite the fact this last thought provoked an internal frown, externally, Deucalion’s handsome faced remained unmoved. That was, until his good eye fell upon the young man bound on his platter in the far corner of the room. The two soldiers who had been playing with this prize bit of flesh had just walked away, sated, leaving their meaty morsel behind, well basted.

Seeing this, the barest of grins tugged up the corners of  Deucalion’s wolfish lips

He had trusted Stiles to select the favors for this event. Again, he was pleased with how well Stiles knew his master's particular tastes. Yes, the young man Stiles selected was perfect. Strong, well-muscled. And the way his body responded to being molested…

_Such potential._

The instant Deucalion’s eye caught him carried in among all the other delicacies, he knew that sweet round ass was destined to be his. He cast his keen mind back trying to remember what the announcing slave had called out upon the young man’s arrival.

“Derek” he murmured to himself, remembering. The name tasted rich on his tongue. The harsh click at the end of it was like a whip’s crack. A pleasant sound, he’d always found.

Perhaps he would keep it: the name and the boy, both.

Given this, one might have imagined then Deucalion would have raised objections when he released his lieutenants to their revelries. But truthfully he had never minded sharing his prizes with his men, _when it was at his discretion_.

No, He found no reason to become overwrought at the fact his cock was not the first to breach Derek’s tight, oiled hole. As far as Deucalion was concerned the opportunity for other future firsts was limitless and each held the promise of being equally as exhilarating.

For this reason he was quite content to let his men break Derek in. In fact, from the vantage point of his place of honor at the feast, he’d derived considerable pleasure from watching the bulk of his lieutenants bend the lovely reed of this particular captive's body... with the exception of Ennis.

Deucalion’s eyes narrowed for only an instant.

Most of his men when they'd taken Derek that night had paid him rough, ribald attention, but it was clear they’d understood that this fare had clearly been prepared for their leader. But Ennis, Derek's first of the night had been heedless of this fact. He'd made a beeline for the youth the moment the festivities had commenced, tearing into Derek's fresh flesh like one famished.

It was unlike his second to be so unrestrained and Deucalion knew this better than any, since they had been all but raised together. Like their fathers before them, they had fought side by side in countless battles and Ennis had been his right hand now for almost five years.

Considering all they had been through together, Deucalion thought he had a good understanding of his captain, though lately he'd sensed a change. And tonight had been frankly shocking. Never before had he seen Ennis in such a state, even in the height of combat. He had watched with growing tension as his second had ravaged Derek’s mouth and then pounded his ass bloody, despite his careful preparation.

It would have been unbecoming for Deucalion to have had to call his second to order so he had been quietly relieved when some of his other men had diplomatically intervened. Jokingly urging Ennis to leave something for them to enjoy too, their laughter was enough, it seemed, to bring him back.

Deucalion made a mental note to reward those men for their quick thinking. It had saved both Ennis’ honor and his own, and prevented that particular dish from being broken in a way that would render Derek unsalvageable later.

After the mens’ teasing Ennis had come quickly and left to wreak havoc elsewhere. But Deucalion kept an eye on him throughout the evening. The dark fires that continued to burned in his second’s eyes had not gone unnoticed: it was clear that the dark-haired delicacy with his strange markings had affected Ennis profoundly.

Through careful observance Deucalion witnessed his captain on several occasions, glancing back to the table where Derek was served with undisguised lust, while taking his fill of the feast’s other human morsels.  This sudden lack of self-control struck Deucalion as highly unseemly. He prided himself, after all, on his ability to postpone his own appetites.

It made things taste so much sweeter when one finally partook.

Like tonight. He considered this _Derek_ that Stiles had chosen for him “dessert,” a sweet confection to end the evening with. Holding this in mind, he'd conducted himself cautiously throughout the feast.

Now though, his patience with the festivities had waned.

The celebration had been going on for hours; the rich food sat somewhat sourly in his stomach; the waves of wine he’d consumed, which never seemed to have much of an effect on him anyway, were quickly receding from the shores of his mind.

Several of his men were collapsed at this point, spent and snoring about the tent. A few had cut the girls free from their platters and were having sport with them on the fur-covered floor.

"Enough," Deucalion growled, and though his voice was not loud, within moments men were roused and passions quelled.

For the soldiers so recently disentangled from the broken boughs of the women, he benevolently offered them the chance to take the girls back to their own quarters. Ennis looked up from nearby. Unlike Deucalion’s other men his cock remained buried in the young woman beneath him.

"And then?" Ennis asked slyly.

"Keep them. Give them to your men. It matters not to me," Deucalion answered.

As if by some prearranged signal, servants began silently filing in to start the cleaning and clearing away. Meanwhile Deucalion's officers started lumbering out, some dragging, others carrying their sobbing or semiconscious party favors in tow.

Ennis quickly withdrew from the wrecked cunt of the girl he had been tormenting. He scrambled up and began moving purposefully towards Derek.

"Captain," Deucalion called out - his voice low and dangerous in light of how possessed his second had seemed, "Not him. I have not finished with him yet."

Ennis stopped in his tracks. It took several moments longer than it should have before he turned slowly back towards his leader and acknowledged Deucalion’s order. Finally he shrugged and smiled nonchalantly as if to say, "No problem."  His, “understood, Sir,” followed soon after, but the angry flush in his cheeks and the tense hunch of his shoulders was not lost on his commander.

Deucalion congratulated himself on discovering how deep Ennis’ interest in the Derek went. It could be a possible chink in his second's calculating and impenetrable façade. He also feared, however, that by his order he had just inadvertently revealed the same.

He schooled his features into cautious blankness as he watched Ennis return to his previous victim. Ennis snatched her up by her arms as she weakly tried to crawl away, and threw her efficiently over his shoulder as he strode out of the tent.

Alone now amidst the scurrying slaves, Deucalion moved with heavy grace back to the two remaining human trays. He looked down with momentary disdain at the vacant girl, clearly near death. With a small gesture he waved her away into the waiting ranks of servants to be disposed of.

Derek though... He was something else.

The pang of desire, the blow of the young man’s beauty, Deucalion had experienced when this platter had first been brought in hit him anew as he surveyed the morsel he’d waited to taste all night.

Flesh as carefully prepared as any other delicacy: glistening, shaved, oiled, spiced, Deucalion was surprised by the sadness that struck him in that instant, the realization that tonight’s violence had been the only reward of the exquisite.

He set this unexpected sorrow aside to study the young man now unhindered and was rewarded as his lust quickly filled all the hollows left within his soul. His body stirred and filled itself too in response to the vision the young man was. Disheveled and defiled, glistening with sweat and congealed with blood and cum, quaking involuntarily in his painful confinement, Derek seemed even more appealing.

“Surely, you have come from somewhere else." Deucalion muttered, trailing a finger over the curled bottom of one of his prize’s feet. Not that he expected Derek to understand him, or answer, even if he could.

No, there was no way he had been born in the village where he had been captured. Deucalion marveled at the shaded places on Derek’s skin where he was already clearly growing stubble. His strong, solid bone structure, the prominent brows and chiseled jaw were so different from the fine features shared by the forest dwellers. But there was something so smooth and refined in the young man’s rugged beauty, setting him against the other villagers he was like a bird's egg found amidst a nest of pebbles.

Then Deucalion remembered finding Stiles, likewise, one of another blood, though if only half, amidst another people as well.

"Another rare bird," he sighed. He pushed away thoughts of Stiles and their past before his celebratory mood was dampened irreparably. It would be a shame to end such a lavish night morose. So, instead, Deucalion shifted his consideration of Stiles to wondering if his clever first servant had learned enough of their newly conquered's dialect to speak with this dark beauty.

"I would be interested to know your story."

Gaze sweeping over the tortured form before him once more, Deucalion was intrigued by the complex tattoos that encircled well-muscled biceps and the simpler tattoo between broad shoulders.

Again, these spoke of another origin. The tribes had nothing so sophisticated, though certain groups did practice scarification. Deucalion himself loved to make marks on the human body, though rarely anything so permanent.

For some reason, he thought of Stiles again. He had been so glad originally that his first servant had come to him early, before Stiles’ skin had been indelibly marred by his peoples’ rites of passage. A sudden pain blossomed in his chest as he realized the irony of these thoughts now. He brought winter to his heart and waited for its sweeping cold to wither this tender bud of nostalgia.

Eyes refocusing on the figure before him Deucalion could imagine the marks he’d eventually paint on this human canvas.

Derek’s head was bent low. A thin string of saliva hung from his sweet bottom lip. Deucalion placed a hand under Derek’s chin and lifted his face upward. He was amazed at the color of the eyes that confronted him, dark and green as river stones. And right now just as wet with unshed tears.

When he realized that these eyes were not seeing him, Deucalion looked deep into the windows of Derek's soul and understood that he was far away indeed. The general experienced a sudden deep fear that the glorious creature in his hands had gone like girl he had just waved away.

Softly, almost reverently, the fingers of his other hand traced Derek's bruised mouth. The sensation of this tender touch proved as effective as a blow.

Deucalion watched as Derek's mind boiled up to the surface of his gaze. Wild-eyed, his captive tried to jerk his head away, despite the fresh waves of pain this brought to his knotted muscles.

"So," Deucalion grinned, "there's life in you yet!"

He had not completely loosed his hold on Derek’s chin, when the young man, suddenly pulled away and spat in the hand that had been touching his face.

Deucalion drew back, startled. He was shocked, but secretly pleased to see the fury and defiance in those large, green eyes. He laughed and was rewarded as confusion flickered up momentarily in Derek's face amidst the anger.

"I think spit is a splendid idea!” Deucalion hawked heartily into his own palm, wedding their fluids together for the first time. "It will certainly be of benefit to you," he chuckled.

He leaned in towards Derek's face. Close enough that Derek could feel the breath of his words even if he did not understand them. With his dry hand, Deucalion gripped his chin again. He ran the back of the other hand, his palm dripping with saliva, down Derek’s shaved, tightly muscled torso. Derek's whole body stiffened and he tried desperately to buck away as the general’s hand encircled his excruciatingly rigid cock.

Deucalion laughed again. "I think in fact, that there's obviously quite a bit of life still in you!"

He saw the heat rise to Derek's cheeks. He watched as anger, shame, fear, and yes, even desire, fought amongst each other for the occupation of Derek’s eyes. He heard the sharp gasp escape and multiply in his captive’s strong throat as he slowly began stroking him. Despite how many times the boy had come, he was so pent up Deucalion knew he could not hold out for long.

Though Derek fought his every touch, still each second brought him closer to surrender. For Deucalion, drinking in this struggle with all his senses was more intoxicating than any liquor.

Derek clearly was fighting not to close his eyes. Duecalion knew why. He was using his magic, staring at Derek so searchingly his captive likely felt more penetrated in this instant than he had at any other moment since he’d been carried in. Surprisingly though, Derek did not break his gaze.

Watching the battle taking place on Derek’s face was possibly one of the most splendid things Deucalion had ever witnessed.

Oh, yes. Stiles had chosen impeccably.

"Come now, come now," Deucalion crooned softly.

Derek, unable to contain himself any longer, suddenly sobbed and shuddered. Tears and seed baptized Deucalion's hands simultaneously. The general continued stroking Derek well past his orgasm, until he was making whimpered begging noises from the overstimulation.

Derek trembled to the point of all but rattling his tray off the table. He howled but the sound was muted by the drugs and the damage done to his throat. His screams went unheeded however, until Deucalion had milked him back into hardness. He kept this up, only pausing occasionally to re-wet his hand with the drool spilling from Derek’s gasping mouth. It wasn’t until his prize came dry that Deucalion finally released him.

Staring down at the shaking shoulders of the young man beside him, Deucalion wiped his hands on his tunic and then placed one of them ever so gently on Derek’s bowed head. His fingers traced soft tunnels through cum matted locks.

Surprisingly it was at this tender touch, that Derek truly began to weep in earnest.

Deucalion's triumphant grin slipped like a shadow across his face before it grew stern again. He looked over to one of the servants who had been cleaning while conspicuously trying to ignore what was taking place between his master and one of the evening's "special dishes."

His good eye glowed, electric, but Deucalion's voice was contained, low and hoarse.

"Go and fetch Stiles," he ordered. "Tell him his master has taken a new pet."

 


	5. Remembrance

Stiles sat, head bent over his work, repairing the reins of his Master’s bridle. He squinted in the dim glow of the candles. He could have had more light, but he didn’t wish to disturb his 'children' sleeping at the other end of the tent. Besides he didn’t really need it. It had been two years since he had become a creature of darkness, preferring the world of shadows where his scars were not as visible. And now even with his handicap, his fingers were sure as he re-braided the thin leather strips.

The braid complete, he trailed the fingers of his good hand over the dark spots on the reins where the sweat of Deucalion’s palms had left their indelible stains. Stiles touched the leather softly to his lips. This is where Deucalion’s hands had been, this was as close as he would get to his Master’s touch now.

He imagined he could detect his Master’s scent still in the hides.

Stiles mouthed the reins gently, his eyes tearing as the taste and feel of leather filled his head with memories. How he longed to relive the reassuring constraint of bound limbs, the way that leather bit and muscle stretched with creative tying, the electric stinging kiss of an artfully swung strap.

Such thoughts made him’ conscious of just how much his body ached right now. It had ever since the 'incident' that had left him scarred and cost him his spot at his Master’s side. But while he had long since adjusted to the physical pain that so often hummed just below the surface of his consciousness, he had never become accustomed to this deeper throbbing caused by the loss of his place in his Master’s heart.

Stiles wondered at times how much longer he could bear it before it drove him mad.

“Enough”, he hissed at himself. Sniveling like a child was not productive. Besides, despite everything, wasn’t he still Deucalion’s first servant, in charge of all his slaves, responsible for all his affairs? He knew this was cause for rancor among certain contingents: he was too young, of impure blood, and damaged as well. Still, he knew no one who could better serve his Master.

Though he often appeared flustered in the daily grind, Stiles was cool and level in the midst of crisis. Given Deucalion’s temperament and inclination towards snap decisions, this was imperative. Stiles knew too he had a sharp mind and excellent recall; he could keep track of a million tiny details. He was also as fair and as kind as he could be in all his dealings.  

So, though some might grumble about his appointment after what had happened, since receiving the rank of first servant, most of his Master’s minions had come to respect him, if not secretly admire him despite his youth and appearance. None of them ever suspected beneath his busy, efficient conduct of the emotions that waged war daily in Stiles’s heart.  

As he returned to the final binding that would finish the reins, he reminded himself he should be more grateful. In addition to his status, Deucalion had provided him with his own quarters, not forcing him to live among the other slaves with their gossip and constant scrutiny. His Master had also allowed, even supported him, in his impetuous habit of taking in strays.

Glancing over across the tent,  Stiles watched as one of the five small sleeping forms bedded down there sighed and shifted, snuggling deeper next to its companion for additional warmth. His eyes welled again as he watched his beautiful, broken children slumber.

He wiped his useless tears away, then turned his attention back to the finished reins in his hands, inspecting them carefully for any defect in his repair. He reminded himself that he was still the only person allowed to maintain his Master’s personal equipment: his armor, his weapons, his tack. Even though with his missing fingers, it took him slightly longer to do his work.  

This in itself must mean his Master still trusted him at a very deep level,  even if Deucalion could no longer love... or even look at him.

Thinking of trust drew his mind to the festivities taking place in his Master’s tent.  They had been ongoing for hours at this point and he imagined Deucalion’s endurance of such frivolities would soon reach its limit.

He wondered what his Master thought of the present he had given him, that beautiful barbarian boy, knowing he treasured great beauty and things that were out of the ordinary.

His Master’s appetites were well known among his troops and his tribe back home. That the General consorted with women but was also drawn to men was understood. There was no shame in this amongst Deucalion’s people, many were, and same sex coupling was not unusual.  

He pushed aside all the reminders that suddenly flooded his mind at how painfully and exquisitely he’d been taught this. Raised by a mother who had come from the mountains, it had taken Stiles some time to reconcile himself to the naturalness of this, since that had not been their way.

Shifting his thoughts back to the barbarian took some effort. The young man, “Derek” as the other prisoners from his village called him, was perfect for Deucalion: that flawless skin and those deep green eyes, lovely, lean, and tightly muscled.

Stiles was curious to see how his Master would deal with how hirsute his captive was, should he decide to keep him. They’d had to spend so long shaving him in preparation. But when the thick thatch of Derek’s cock had been cleared away... Oh, that cock.... It was beautiful. At rest, it was long and slightly slender looking, but aroused, it had been magnificent.

It was seeing that cock, taut and dripping in arousal as the bound barbarian had been fighting off Ennis’ advances in the prisoner’s quarters that had cemented Stiles’s decision.  Not that in Derek’s current straits he expected the youth would have much use of that exquisite member. No, it was its response to the situation with Ennis that mattered. There had been the promise there of one who could be trained to find pleasure in pain… And fear.

Fortunately, the boy had an ass that was equally perfect as his cock, with a roundness many women would fight for. Lush and firm, it was perfectly made for penetration and that part of Derek’s body, Stiles expected, feeling a slight pang of envy, would get very well used indeed.

That he had been able to steal Derek from Ennis had made him even more appealing as a choice for his Master. Stiles did not trust the captain. He’d long believed that he was a danger to his Lord.  Had said as much to Deucalion when he had his ear.  

But as capable as his Master was at anticipating danger on the field of battle, Stiles feared he was blind to the menace that stood alongside him. He recalled what had happened the first time he had voiced his concerns, his Master’s response to his accusations. His eyes clouded at the memory and he began to tremble despite the evening’s warmth.

They had been lingering in the afterglow of a particularly intense 'lesson' (the term Deucalion liked to use when schooling a pet in the art of submission).  A soft breeze had swept in from the garden window to whisper its honeysuckled breath across their salty skins.

His hands and feet had still been bound, but even more binding than the carefully tied soft leather strapping was his Master’s embrace. Every inch of him had felt attended to:  there was not a spot on his body that had been missed by lash or lips.

Stiles shivered harder where he sat, his Master’s reins momentarily forgotten, thinking how far that day Deucalion had pushed him.  

His endurance was the instrument Deucalion played like a master musician, his spirit, his mind, and his body strings, stroked to the verge of snapping in the execution of his erotic compositions. But the ecstasy of these arrangements had been nothing for Stiles in comparison to time spent afterward. No matter the tears, the pain, the begging, everything was worth those quiet moments.

Stiles could still feel the comforting mass of thick war made muscles kissing the tender flesh of his back. He could feel the sleepy rhythm, the gentle puffs of his Master’s breath across his neck as he fell wholly into the memory.

* * *

 

Deucalion emitted a low sighed and pulled him in closer, nestling his chin over Stiles’ crown. Though he was spent he had not withdrawn from inside Stiles.

In that moment, his pet had never felt more content: cocooned in the embrace of his Master with one of Deucalion's most sacred part likewise, safely cocooned within him. Though he never acknowledged it, Stiles secretly dreaded the moment when they would hatch and with the vacancy of his occupant, he would momentarily feel the fragility of his empty skin.   

Deucalion stretched and measured the light that had followed the breeze in through the open window.  Then his eyes were drawn back to the bound body in his bed.  With a single fingertip, he softly traced the marks he had so carefully applied to his pet’s backside.  He continued to trail his touch around the Stiles’ waist and swirl it in the hollows of his slim hips. He offered one of his rare smiles, watching his pet’s pale, sweat-slicked skin shiver in pleasure and remembrance.

Too soon for Stiles' taste, Deucalion withdrew from him and was out of the bed, wiping himself down with the cloths and the basin of water that had been laid out before their 'training' session had started.  

“I have to go.” He began putting on his clothes. “I have to meet Ennis at the council’s quarters by dusk for the announcement of the new General.”

Pulling his tunic over his head, Deucalion was surprised when he emerged to see furrows creasing his pet’s brow. He sat on the edge of the bed and tousled Stiles’ hair.

“Don’t worry, I’ll untie you when I get back, or…” he grinned evilly, “Maybe I won’t."

Stiles managed a weak smile back.  “It’s not that…” He hesitated, fearful of breaking the intimate spell that had held them both. He drew in a breath steeling himself to say more. Then violating the ritual that governed so many of their exchanges he asked softly “Duec, who do you do you think they will choose?”

His master looked at him, surprised by his boldness, though by that time he should have been accustomed to it. He could have shut the conversation down with a look, but their lesson had gone so well he was feeling generous.

“Well, there are several good candidates, clever, brave men, but my guess would be Ennis… His successes of late have not gone unnoticed."

This was true; Ennis had been accruing increasing status due to several complicated victories in recent months.

“And what about his failures?” Stiles had whispered his voice barely audible in the quiet room. He tensed, watching the darkness well up in his Master’s face. He was all too familiar with Deucalion’s temper, how quickly a storm could build and blow. He forced himself to push on despite the warning.

“You know that his achievements could not have occurred without you. That he has of late been careless of losses, left you open to the enemy. That is was only your skill that saved his honor and won the last battle.”

“Quiet!” roared Deucalion transforming in a few quick breaths from sated sensualist to dangerous warrior. “Who are you to say these things? A boy, a slave, a pet?”  

No whip’s lash would cut so deep as his Master/lover’s diminishment. Stiles’s eyes welled with tears at the cruelty of the words. But rather than retreat, his own wrath had been provoked.

Despite his bindings, he raised himself on the edge of his Master’s bed and held his gaze firm. The cool even tones of his voice revealed the extreme control their 'lessons' worked so hard to break.

“I may be a boy, a slave, your pet, but also, I was there!  I saw what happened with my own eyes, I bloodied a sword alongside yours! I helped to bury the dead!”

Deucalion sucked in his breath at this. He rose from the bed, turning his back on Stiles, not wanting him to see the impact of his words or of the truth that they contained. During their last maneuver, Ennis had retreated and had petitioned he and his regiment, outnumbered and recklessly positioned, to stay.

Stiles, ever faithful had followed him into battle and despite Deucalion’s commands for him to flee had picked up the sword of a fallen soldier and held his ground. His master’s heart had swelled with both terror and pride at the sight.

It was only by the grace of the Gods, his strong leadership, and the fury of his men’s fighting that they overcame their opponents. Decimated but determined, his squadron had regrouped. They were seeking to rejoin their retreating comrades when they’d come upon Ennis’ command. A faction of the opposing forces had gone round and ambushed Ennis and his men as they retreated. It was the arrival of he and his remaining troops that had saved Ennis and had turned the tide of their battle towards victory.

Still, he and Ennis had been friends since before they were old enough to understand even the meaning of this word. And Deucalion refused to believe he would ever purposely put him or his men in danger.

Anger incited by the implications of Stiles’ comments, his fists clenched and unclenched.

“It was a tactical error.  Ennis did not deliberately sacrifice my men.” Deucalion’s voice was still harsh but low now. He began fastening his sword belt around his hips. “Even if he did, he is the senior Captain; I am committed to following his orders. If he is appointed the new General, I will do no less.  

“This is the way of my people and I would die to uphold it, it is a matter of honor.”

 _Your people?_ Stiles thought. The wound from his Master’s last words was opened even more deeply by this. It was as if he did not have half the blood of Deucalion’s cursed conquerors in his own veins, or as if he could not possibly understand his Master’s culture, though he had lived immersed in it for more than half his life.

“And if it is you who is chosen?” Stiles asked, simultaneously blessing and cursing Deucalion for all the intensive training he had imposed on him; otherwise, he would have never found the strength to voice his thoughts. “Will Ennis commit himself to you as honestly?”

Deucalion drew his short sword and in a flash was upon Stiles pinning him in his bed. “I said hold, hold your tongue!” He pressed the edge of his blade against his pet's smooth jawline.

Stiles felt the fire of his Master’s anger sear his naked skin. His heart pounded, sure that he had at last pushed too far. It was in this moment he found a place within himself he’d never known before.

Deucalion’s rage faltered, watching in wonder as Stiles’s eyes grew wide and then lost their fear.

In the ultimate act of submission, he tipped his head back baring his collared throat. Drops of sweat pooled in the hollow at its base as Stiles closed his eyes and waited. His Lord’s breath grew ragged and he could feel the hard pressure of his Master’s new erection pushing into the skin of his hip as intensely as the cool blade at his jugular.  

Overcome by the intensity of this unimagined display; Deucalion had never felt such overwhelming emotions: the power of his conflicting fury and desire.  

He drew back his short sword and slashed.  

When it was over he stood and walked stiffly towards the entry of his quarters.

Stiles lay untouched, motionless on the bed, his severed bonds pooling around his wrists and ankles.  White-knuckled Deucalion’s hand grasped knob of the door. “This lesson is over,” he said in a whispered growl.

Without looking back, he stepped into the hall. As he pulled the door shut, its latch hissed back into place with a soft sound of finality, locking his pet both in and out behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving forwards and backwards is what this fic seems to want to do. Might be confusing, but once everyone's in place it will get better.
> 
> I'm sure you missed Derek in this chapter, but I'm working out a way for Stiles to get his hands on Derek's beautiful cock. Plus... after getting just an inkling of how Deucalion treats his pets... Aren't you anxious for Derek's lessons to start?
> 
> I sure am. 
> 
> And for those few of you who've been kind enough to leave kudos and particularly comments, man... I appreciate it. Never thought an unconventional story like this would find an audience. You guys are awesome!


	6. Unraveling

Stiles shook himself from the past when the flap to his tent shifted and the face of another slave, Liam peered in cautiously.  It was not uncommon as Deucalion’s first servant for people to seek him out at all hours of the day or night.

Stiles imagined the effects of his reverie must have shown on his face when Liam eyed him strangely and then dropped his gaze in seeming embarrassment.  

“Sir, the Commander has called for you.  He has decided to take one of this night’s chosen as a ‘pet’ and wishes for you to attend to it.”

Though he had anticipated this, had selected Derek specifically for his master, Liam’s message stuck like an awl in his heart. Suddenly conscious of how much it had sped up, every beat only seemed to split it further. It took everything in Stiles’ power to restore his usual mask of composure.

“I take it from your message the feast was a success?”

Liam addressed him without looking up, “Yes sir, the officers all seemed to... _enjoy_ themselves.” He added, keeping the code among slaves and knowing Stiles would want to know, “though Lord Ennis, I heard, acted quite oddly.”

While this bit of news pleased Stiles, he was perplexed by the other slave’s continued ill ease.  Shifting his feet uncomfortably, Liam kept stealing surreptitious glances him.  Although he sat before Liam unveiled, Stiles had worked with the other slave often enough uncovered and had thought he was used to his irregular appearance by now.  

It wasn’t as if Liam was unmarked either, though his were normally less enduring. Tonight he sported a fresh black eye; the likely evidence of his unfortunate tendency to forget his conquered status still, even after all these months, and fail to show proper deference to his highers. However, Stiles soon noticed it wasn’t his face that was causing Liam’s discomfort.

Once he’d realized this, he looked down to where Liam’s eyes kept returning. Understanding now that what caught the other slave’s attention was his erection. Stirred by his memories of his Master it visibly jutted up beneath his tunic. Stiles snorted in amusement at Liam’s prudery: under his Master’s training, Stiles had left any kind of modesty behind long ago.

What did bring a blush to Stiles’ cheeks, however, was becoming aware that at some point, in his fit of nostalgia, he had also unconsciously wrapped Deucalion’s repaired reins repeatedly around one of his thin wrists.  His “half-hand” sat numbly on his thigh, next to his tented lap. Its bindings so tight, the tips of his fingers had taken on a slightly bluish tint.

“Thank you for the news about Captain Ennis.” Stiles looked up from this bound limb, catching Liam’s gaze. He made no move to hide his arousal or to unwrap himself. “Perhaps there is something in the air tonight moving men in unpredictable ways?”  

Seeing how this only made Liam more uneasy, Stiles closed his eyes, suddenly very tired.

“Anything else?”  

“No sir.”

“I will attend to the Commander, you may return to your duties. ”

“Yes, sir.”

Liam disappeared back into the night. Once he was gone Stiles opened his eyes again. They burned.

_So it has happened._

Looking down at his bound hand once more, his good hand released the ends of the reins it had been holding. He watched the tethers slowly unravel.

Minutes later he was on route to Deucalion’s tent. It was a path he knew so well he could have traveled it in his sleep without error. To the east, on the horizon, a soft glow was building.  While he saw no one else about, Stiles felt the growing buzz in the compound as the night’s grip began to weaken. He feared, however, that his own night was just beginning.  

His body ached in unusual ways and his core felt hollow. His usually sure feet stumbled. It had been ages since he’d had an attack of his lungs, but his chest was instantly, unbearably tight, signaling one was near. Moments later it was on him and he wondered if he would find the breath needed to carry him all the way to his Master’s quarters.

As the dawn stretched out thin fingers of light to pluck down the moon from night’s starry foliage, Stiles was eminently grateful for the lingering darkness. Since healing from the ‘accident’ he had often used night, another veil to mitigate the impact of his deformity. But there was another reason that he did not want a random passerby to see his face at the moment.

His feet faltered again and Stiles fell to his knees.  The impact of his landing seemed to drive the significance of Liam’s news clear through him now and his heart cleaved in two.

One of these halves wanted his Master to be happy regardless of his personal loss, the other was determined that no one else should occupy Deucalion’s life as he had. Kneeling, his good hand clutching his chest, Stiles fought to hold the two pieces together. But it was no use. His stomach twisted wondering which of these fragments would inevitably claim him.

No longer caring who might come upon him, Stiles pushed his forehead into the muddy ground, the trail that led to his Master’s tent, and wept.

* * *

Deucalion kept his hand on his new pet’s head until Derek stopped weeping.

It did not end quickly.

The sound and sight of his new pet’s brokenness, like always, aroused him, but he didn’t take his captive as he could have. Derek’s state was the result of having endured a ‘difficult’ evening and while Deucalion wanted his prize broken, he desired it done by his own hand.

So, instead of ravishing Derek, he dispatched a slave to fetch Stiles. This done he enlisted another to assist him in lowering Derek’s tray to the floor.  He then ordered others to bring blankets, cloths, and basins of hot water.

Kneeling beside his still sniffling prize, once again he took Derek’s chin in his hand and gently lifted his head. Despite Derek’s lingering tears he was astonished to find his gaze evenly met.  Face flushed with shame, still, Derek did not look away. Instead, his wide, wet eyes searched wonderingly and for the first time in years, Deucalion felt his own cheeks heat in response to the intensity with which he was being scrutinized.

Disconcerted he quickly released his grasp. Lips set in a firm line he pushed his disquiet aside and set about loosening the ties that bound his green-eyed beauty.

Leaving the decorated cuffs in place, he used a small dagger to sever the tethers holding Derek in place on his service. Knowing that the return of circulation to Derek’s limbs after such an extended period of immobility would be painful, Deucalion freed him slowly.  He was pleased when each limb was released, although Derek grimaced and hissed, he did not otherwise make a sound.  

Taking one of his captive’s  wrists in his hand and pushing its cuff back,  Deucalion marveled, now that it was loosed, at how Derek’s skin was only lightly marked by the bindings: they should have been well bruised.

Turning his attention to the rest of him, Deucalion’s eyes traveled over Derek’s taut frame, scrawled with the graffiti of his men’s lust.  It was visible, but again, not as boldly evident as he would have imagined. His mind left off this mystery spinning off in another direction, eagerly anticipating a time to come, after healing cleared the canvas of his pet’s body. Then he would paint a new composition of his own passions on it.

_Then we’ll see how my marks take._

Deucalion growled low in his chest at this pleasurable speculation.

There was no mistaking the effect his new pet was having on him already. In one moment he ordered his servants to gently massage Derek’s strained limbs as they were freed, only to drive them off moments later, dissatisfied with their skill.  Thus dismissed, his attendants hovered nearby in case he had need of them, but they shifted about, ill at ease.  

It was rare to see their master so ill-composed.

When the last tie was cut, Derek fell exhausted into his new master’s arms. The damp, dark head pressed to Deucalion’s broad chest. Muscled limbs, weak after being so long bound, still tried in vain to push away from his grasp.

Deucalion wrapped his arms tightly around Derek. For several moments the youth struggled against the engulfing embrace his new master.  But the night had been so brutal the last of Derek’s energy was soon spent. It became clear to Deucalion when his pet stilled, at last, it was because he could no longer find the strength to move.  

Completely exhausted, Derek collapsed against him and his body went lax in surrender. Deucalion had relished Derek’s struggles but he was even more stirred now by his submission.

In the grip of his new master, Derek lost yet another battle, slipping into unconsciousness. Seeing this, Deucalion laid him down onto the blankets his slaves had spread upon the floor. Before this lovely broken creature, as his eyes traveled over Derek’s exquisite form, he felt his unquenched desires quicken. He drank in the bruised beauty of Derek’s face: the fine ridges of his cheekbones, the thick dark lashes flickering fitfully over tear stained cheeks. Already the bruised rose of Derek's mouth trembled lightly in the breeze of troubled dreams.  

He set about washing his captive’s abused body, wiping the filth of his men off smooth tanned flesh. As he did he began making determinations. His pet would have earrings, his nipples would need to be pierced too, as well as his cock. Skin warm under his hands he considered what body hair he would let Derek keep and what he would have removed permanently.

Sliding over firm muscles, his war calloused hands, so agile on the field of battle, were unused to such soft actions. Suddenly they felt too large, too clumsy.  He was pleased however to see that even in its state of drift Derek’s body was responding to his touch. His cock had perked up despite the fact it had been milked dry.

 _Ah, the resilience of youth,_ Deucalion thought shifting his position to ease his own painful engorgement.  

Liam had returned from Stiles’ tent and had been watching his master’s awe-filled ablutions with the others when he saw the guard at the entrance of their master’s quarters silently signal that the first servant had arrived.  

Hesitantly he stepped closer to his master and quietly cleared his throat. The sound seemed far too loud in the intimate space that had previously only been occupied by Derek’s unconscious, soft moans and Deucalion’s increasingly heavy breaths.

“Master,” Liam haltingly whispered, “Your first servant is here.”

He watched Deucalion’s hands lower slowly. Then, for what seemed an age, the general simply stared at the sleeping body stretched out before him. Liam was going to brave addressing his master again when Deucalion suddenly stood.

Gazes dropped as slaves moved to avert their eyes from witnessing their Lord's profound arousal.  Deucalion, however, seemed unconscious of the effect that this, or any of his other previously uncharacteristic actions, was having on those around him. He nodded to Liam, and said, his voice husky, “Carry on.”

Straightening, Deucalion moved toward the mouth of his tent leaving the unconscious barbarian temporarily in the care of his servants.  He was surprised to feel an almost immediate resentment, knowing that other hands were touching his new possession.  

At the same time, he was grateful for the interruption. Without it, he would surely have been forced to take the boy, even in his state of unawareness and this was the last thing Deucalion wanted: for when he took his pet for the first time he desired Derek to be fully conscious of everything.

Stiles stood directly outside his master’s quarters.  Though inwardly still shaken, he had regained his exterior composure.  Behind his recovered veil, his tears had been wiped clean. Had Deucalion parted the flap to his tent, he would have encountered eyes, slightly red, wearing only an expression of detached efficiency.

Yet, this did not happen.

In fact, Deucalion had only seen his former pet up close and unveiled once since the accident that had ended their affair two years ago.  Since that time, though they conversed formally with regular frequency, all of their exchanges had been conducted in a singular manner, each standing on one side of a door, inches apart but never touching, speaking but never seeing the face of the one he addressed.

Through the closed entrance of the tent, Stiles sensed the heat radiating from his Master’s body. He fancied he could smell the man’s musk; the spicy odor he remembered his Lord released at the height of battle, be the skirmish waged in love or war.

Raising his good hand to the woven wall between them, Stiles was unaware in his tumult that he was tracing the cast shadow of his Liege. He ceased this unconscious caress the moment that Deucalion spoke.

“First?”

Stiles heard the restraint in his Master’s voice and responded in kind. “Yes, my Lord.”

“I am… I am taking a new pet.”  

Deucalion was appalled as he said this to hear a tone of uncertainty in his own voice.  

_Damn him. I do not need a servant’s permission to pursue my own interests._

Yet at the same moment he thought this, he knew in his secret heart, Stiles was much more than a mere servant.

“The tattooed barbarian, my Lord?”

Stiles too had been surprised at the tone of his Master’s declaration and decided to use it to his advantage. He continued on, careful to keep his voice neutral. “I take it then you were pleased with the selection I made for you?”

Deucalion cursed silently at the implications of the statement. That somehow Stiles was controlling who he would engage with.

“He was one of Captain Ennis’ ‘spoils’ you know. I exercised your right on your behalf, to secure him for the evening.”

This offered new insights to his Captain’s earlier conduct. Deucalion’s anger grew.  He was furious at Stiles manipulations. His provoking Ennis, no doubt purposely, because of his distrust of the man.

What he’d revealed was dangerous and Stiles waited with his head bowed; ashamed in this moment of the pleasure Deucalion’s discomfort brought him. He could feel the thunderheads gathering on the other side of the curtain and anticipated their break. He was shocked then when there was no explosion and even more so by his Master’s words.

“I want you to take temporary charge of him.”

“Pardon, my Lord?”

“You heard me. He needs time to recover. The Captain, as you can imagine,  was not pleased to lose his ‘spoils’ and took this out on your selection during the feast.” Deucalion too could manipulate, he had been Stiles’ tutor in this after all. He added another measure of gruffness to his voice.

“You could have exercised my right and held him out from the night’s events. You could have sent him to me untried and unmarred. You will see that he is restored.  I will not breed a bitch wearing another man’s brand.”

Deucalion heard Stiles’s breath leave him at the word “brand” and instantly regretted his metaphor. Still, he was angry and so pressed on. “I am also making you responsible in part for his training.”

Now it was Deucalion who felt the storm rising on the other side of the canvas.

“What?” Stiles whispered, all pretense of decorum abandoned.

At the break his first servant’s reserve, Deucalion was surprised to feel an old familiar twitch .

“I am also making you responsible in part for his training.” Deucalion stated this evenly before adding, “I will not repeat myself again. You have your orders.

Outside a cloud shifted and a blade of early morning light slit through the entrance of his tent. Deucalion was suddenly saddened that it could not pierce his own darkness so easily and realized he wanted this conversation to be over.

“I am commanding an army. I do not have the time to teach him all the niceties of being a good pet. Besides, since it seems you are the one who chose him for my bed, you can bloody well instruct him in how to occupy it.”

With this, he turned and strode back into the welcoming shadows of his quarters. He clapped his hands.

“Liam, take my charge and see that he is safely ensconced for the time being in the First’s abode.”  

Stiles watched in stunned disbelief as Liam emerged from the Commander’s tent, followed by a broadly built slave with the blanket wrapped barbarian carried, draped over his shoulder.

Liam shot the stunned First an apologetic look as he and the other man headed off, with Derek in tow, towards Stiles’s tent.

 


	7. Demons and Angels

 

Morning light stole in through the seams and under the edges of Ennis’ tent.  Growling, he threw his arms over his face to block out its unwelcome intrusion.  

If his men happened to look in on him, they would merely think their captain was paying for last night’s debauchery. They would not know that behind the dam of his muscular forearms tears of frustration threatened to break.

 _Damn them all,_ Ennis silently raged. _Damn Stiles for interfering. Damn Deucalion for claiming._ _But most of all damn the barbarian for simply existing!_

Overwhelming rage roared in his chest at having so blatantly allowed his passions to overwhelm his caution and yet… he still simply could not exorcise the image of that beautiful man from his mind.

Even now, recalling what it had been like to sink into that lush, virgin ass. So hot, so tight. The way that it had opened for him. The low husk of the young warrior’s cries amidst the high wails of the women…

Ennis growled again. He slipped one hand down from shielding his eyes to grip his fattening cock.The Captain grinned bitterly behind the remaining shelter of his arm remembering the first time he laid eyes on the wolf warrior. _Derek,_ he’d learned he was called.  

It happened in the middle of a routine sweep of a small forest village. Ennis had been through such raids countless times during this invasion and typically had found any resistance the forest folk offered laughable in comparison to the weapons and strength of his squadron.

Living in relative peace between their own peoples,mthe forest tribes of their newly conquered lands knew little of war and fighting. The people of this land resided in a loose knit cohesion, abiding in their separate territories, traveling at ordained intervals to large gatherings for the purposes of trade or ceremony.

Other than these special gatherings, the villages existed largely in isolation. And while the majority of the tribes’ people were skilled hunters, warriors they were not. How quickly it had become clear to the invaders that their opponents had  been completely unprepared for the type of onslaught Deucalion’s troops waged.  

The protocol for the raids was simple -- The fighting was quick and calculated. Capitalizing on surprise, Ennis and his men attacked in the early hours of the morning when most of the villagers were still asleep. The ground forces went in first on foot, violently rousing the forest dwellers, dragging the terrified inhabitants out of their huts and looting what few worthy possessions they found.

Ennis and his mounted troops followed immediately behind the foot soldiers to assist. Torches were thrown into every dwelling. Grapples drawn by mounted steeds quickly laid to waste the forest folks’ humble structures.  

When Ennis and his contingent finished the only things left behind would be the hovels’ blackened bones and their inhabitants bodies. Within weeks, even these would disappear as the lush landscape quickly reabsorbed them.

His men had taken the Wolf Clan’s village with little difficulty, so Ennis was shocked to suddenly see five of his men drop in quick succession, arrows piercing their head or heart.  He was even more amazed to behold the dark-haired demon that had done this, flying towards him with one of his own soldier’s sword.

He whirled his steed around to better face his attacker but found himself too late. His horse screamed and staggered, reeling from a deep blow to its chest. Ennis leapt up as his mount went down to avoid being pinned beneath its heavy body. Within seconds he’d regained his footing and gathered himself to meet his attacker’s charge. However, seeing his opponent up close, he faltered momentarily, struck as surely as by any sword by his beauty.

This hesitation almost cost him his life.  

Derek wore no armor, not even shoes, and the loincloth barely covering him allowed Ennis to see the marvel of every flexed muscle as the young hunter charged wielding his weapon.  His rival’s sensuous mouth was drawn into a fierce snarl, his eyes alight with blazing fury. Even so, Ennis found himself consciously amending his first impression of the figure flying towards him.

This young man was not a demon at all: "angel" was clearly the correct appellation for such a divine looking creature.

That Derek was, in that moment, an angel of vengeance did nothing to quell Ennis’ sudden desire to drop his sword and bear his neck to the approaching vision, for surely there could be no more glorious hands to die by.  

The slick of a dead comrade’s blade against his flesh opened a long but shallow cut along his collarbone and broke Ennis’ enchantment. He charged in return and their swords clashed violently, the collision sounding sharply, like the gnashing jaws of a wild beast.

The skill with which Derek handled the blade was impressive. Knowing the weight of the weapon, despite Derek’s well muscled arms, Ennis was likewise shocked at how long he continued to thrust and parry without any appearance of fatigue.  

With the majority of the other villagers dispatched or restrained, several soldiers formed a loose circle around their Captain and his combatant. Ennis called out for them to stand down. He’d not met such a challenging fighter in months and relished the battle.

Not long after this, however, a strange shadow cross over his opponent’s face. Derek grimaced and then stumbled, a dazed expression extinguishing the emerald fire in his eyes. Ennis took this opportunity to surge forward. Using the flat of his sword he knocked Derek to the ground.

The impact seemed to revive Derek but not before Ennis found himself kneeling atop the barbarian, his knees pinning the fallen fighter’s arms to the ground.  

Beneath him, the young warrior’s body writhed and thrashed. Derek cursed (by his tones this had been obvious) but the language was none Ennis had heard before. It was harsh and guttural sounding, not the trilling lilt of the forest folk and he thought the timber of it blasphemous emerging from such a lovely throat.  

Regardless of Derek’s cursing, the bucking of his near-naked body beneath him aroused Ennis immensely. A quick glance over his shoulder and he saw Derek’s thrashing had torn his scant loincloth, revealing his genitals.  At the sight of a beautiful half-hard cock and heavy, hairy balls all the blood of battle that had been pounding in his veins surged straight to his cock.

Lying in his cot, Ennis picked up the pace from the slow kneading his hand had been dealing to his thickened dick. He could almost, even now, feel the hardness of Derek’s muscled torso between his thighs. How powerfully he’d wanted to bury his face in the struggling barbarians dark locks and his suddenly hard prick in the solidness of the fallen angel's flesh.

Instead, he’d raised the hilt of his sword and brought it down on his foe’s temple, knocking him senseless. Once Derek lay motionless, Ennis had been able to truly take in the vision of his new captive. He was a work of art, a vision of male beauty marred only by the dirt on his skin and the blood at his temple.

Noting the angry knot already forming on Derek’s superb brow, Ennis worried about the force of his blow. Holding the back of his hand just above the slightly parted lips of his wild angel’s mouth.

Once assured Derek was still breathing, he allowed this same hand to softly caress a wonderfully furred cheek as he drew it back.  He then plucked a scarlet sash (his mark) from a place tucked within his sleeve and bound the unconscious swordsman’s hands together.

Seeing this, some of his men murmured uncomfortably around him. It only took one fierce glare to silence them. Though he understood their unease, he couldn’t be bothered with it. He had made his claim and in doing so, made an oath to himself that this would be far from the last time he would feel the glory of this particular man caged between his thighs.

It was an oath he should have had no trouble keeping. Ennis thumbed the head of his cock, swirling the dew that had collected there with his memories.

_That fucking Barbarian was mine! I found him... I claimed him!_

At the order of their Regent, once a village was subdued, all males above the tribes’ designated age of manhood were to be disposed of. Children below the age of five, regardless of sex, likewise. Females between the ages of five and twenty were spared, but all others were to be dispatched.

The women, boys and surviving children were then conveyed back to the base camp. These prisoners would soon find themselves scattered amongst the holdings of their new lords.

Before the first wave of the invasion had been completed and the land conquered, it had already divided by their Regent into parcels.  Like others, Ennis had been promised a place in this new realm by the royal court if he desired it.  

Though the land itself was laden with wild resources, few were the material riches found with the conquered; so, in compensation, all the chosen captains and lieutenants had been awarded a certain number of captives as their personal “spoils of war.”

Although it did not often happen, it was acceptable in the claiming of these choices, for the age edicts to be overlooked. Even if it had not been acceptable, however, Ennis had already decided Derek would be his.

_And he should have been.  If he was to be bound in anyone’s tent last night, it should have been mine!_

Ennis tipped his head farther back in his cot and growled feeling the throb in his member dim as the image of not Derek, but Deucalion’s scarred bitch, flashed in his mind.

He’d  gone to the captives’ holding area to retrieve the his prize as soon as he’d gotten word the slower wagons carrying their human cargo had at last arrived into the compound. Waiting for them over the previous days as he and a select few had ridden ahead had made him irritable and short-tempered.

Not only did he feel the fever Derek had kindled in him burning  since that first, but he wasn’t deaf to the murmurs of his men about how ill-humored he’d become. But finally, his antidote had arrived.He had not planned to try and take the young hunter right there, but his flesh was so inflamed with want he couldn’t resist.

Despite the hard travel, Dererk still had the energy to protest when they’d unloaded him. He protested even more when his new master seized him and Ennis had made his intentions clear, pushing him up against the side of the cart, grabbing his ass. The barbarian had put on a good show but Ennis had been too well aware of the younger man’s aroused response to his violence.

No doubt that little shit Stiles had seen it too when he was spying and this was why he’d exercised the General’s right to “confiscate” for his master.

 _That meddling freak, that uppity former pet of Deuc’s...._ Ennis was sickened when Stiles stole his angel. _I should have killed him when I had the chance._

The only small measure of comfort left to him after Stiles’ took his prize was knowing Derek would be offered at the feast. Ennis’ hand slid down his shaft and he pumped it more vigorously now. He had at least been first to fuck Derek. And it had been so deliciously clear the barbarian wasn’t used to such male attentions.

His original intent was to be gentle. Well, as gentle as such circumstances allowed. But then, there was something about Derek that acted upon him like a drug. Though Ennis knew Stiles had chosen the man ultimately for his master, he had charged, rutted like a beast, unthinking. He had momentarily lost his senses.

This blow to his pride stung far more than any wound he’d ever suffered in battle. He had revealed his weakness to Deucalion, a friend, but also a man whose office he’d coveted. The bloody rage he felt when he understood at last that the General had decided to keep Derek for himself still simmered just below the surface of his skin. It bubbled hot in his veins and pulsed into his cock.

He had come very close to disgracing himself in front of the other captains last night. This was something he couldn’t risk. He was not strong enough to take Deucalion.

_Yet._

And when he did he’d need their support.

_So stupid to have allowed Stiles’ manipulations to almost force my hand. When I take over Deucalion’s position that little freak will pay dearly. And I’ll take back what’s mine too. If Deuc hasn’t broken him completely._

As plots of revenge rushed through Ennis’s mind his cock grew even harder, the coil of tension wound tighter in his balls and low belly. His climax quickly mounting, his concentration was broken when his ears caught a pained whimper.

Removing the blinding arm from over his eyes at last, Ennis peered over the edge of his cot and was confronted with the destruction of the girl he’d brought back to his tent last night after the feast. She lay curled in a bloodied ball on the ground, so close if he’d swung his legs over the side of his bed he would’ve kicked her.

Reaching over he pulled the mewling mess up onto his cot by her hair. He entered her quickly without grace or proper preparation, but found she was still wet. From oil or abuse, he did not rightly care.

With each thrust he made into his battered captive’s body, his mind wandered farther and farther away from the act he was actually involved in, returning each time to his green-eyed, barbarian angel, Derek.

_If I cannot not tame this lust I must dispose of Deucalion soon or I will truly go mad._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I made my weekly Monday post (depending on where you live) barely...
> 
> Anyway, a quick head's up... I am taking a vacation with a buddy of mine and I plan to be engaging in carnal acts instead of writing them. So don't count on an update for the next two weeks. 
> 
> I mean, if I have the chance, I'll pen a few words. But if things go as I plan, I'm going to be too sated or too exhausted to do much writing.
> 
> Am I boasting here? 
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Yes, I am.


	8. Tethered

Derek struggled to open his eyes but the weight of his eyelids seemed profound.  

When at last he blinked them open, confusion flooded his sleep-addled mind. His aching head buzzed like a disturbed wasps nest.

He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. This vacancy of memory filled him with a familiar dread and he wondered if he’d experienced another “forgetting?”

Gazing up at the fabric above him, he was clearly in a tent of some sort. He was lying, not uncomfortably, on a low tick of new straw. Derek closed his eyes as both the tent’s ceiling and his pallet seemed to spin.

Despite the sick feeling in his head, he immediately went to rise only to find found his movements hampered by thick leather cuffs encircling his gauze-wrapped wrists and ankles. Seeing this, his heart kicked into overdrive. Derek immediately struggled to right himself but the rune inscribed cuffs were finished with braided leads and secured to stout stakes that had been driven deep into the ground.

Derek ceased his thrashing when he realized it was futile and costing him precious energy. Not only this, but his movements had awakened aches in every part of his body, including some in very unexpected ones.

Rather than dwell on this, partly perhaps in fear of what he might discover, he turned to examine his bindings more carefully. He realized when he wasn’t flailing about there was some slack in the leads, though not enough for him to stand upright.

With careful navigation, he managed to push himself up into a kneeling position. Cradling his warring head in his hands his body trembled violently from the exertion.  

“Easy,” a young voice counseled. Turning his dizzy head slowly to the side, Derek was confronted with the bright eyes of two young males sitting near the tent’s entrance, both looking to have about a fourteen years.

One of the boys was smaller and wirier than the other. He sported, curly hair, slightly shaggy of a very light brown color that looked dark-gold at times in the tent’s shifting light. What was most noticeable, however, was a ragged knife scar that marred the right side of his face spoiling what would have otherwise been a very comely countenance. The boy’s right eye was filmed with the dull milky blue of blindness. In compensation for this perhaps, the clear blue of his other eye seemed to burn twice as fiercely.

The other boy was built a bit more solid but was decidedly pretty with pale skin. His eyes were pale too, a light gray-blue, and reigned over by thick, long brows the same color as his straight, dark-brown hair.

The two boys studied Derek with just as keenly as he did them, until he broke the silence.

“Who are you? Where am I? Where are my people? Why am I tied?”

His throat ached terribly when he spoke and his voice came out rough and raspy. It clearly startled the boys as their eyes grew wide and they each took a step back. Then one turned to the other and said in Derek’s tongue, “Go fetch, Stiles.”

With the exception of that last word, which he did not know, hearing them speak his own language was strangely soothing and, since his body seemed unwilling to engage in any further movement at the moment, Derek settled back, relaxing his posture a bit.

As he did, he watched the exchange now taking place between his two young wardens with wary interest.  The scarred boy bristled momentarily at the other’s orders. His curiosity was clearly aroused now that their captive was finally awake and he did not want to leave for fear of missing something.

His darker haired friend sensed this and said emphatically, “Isaac, Stiles asked us to fetch him as soon as the General’s wolf woke.” Then his voice softened, “he’s not going anywhere. He’s tied up and, look, he can’t even sit up yet. Besides… I would go… but you will reach our father faster.”

The youth made a slight gesture downward and Derek’s eyes followed coming to rest on the boy’s badly twisted left foot.  Isaac frowned as he considered this and then with a slight nod, he turned and darted out of the tent but not before calling out, “Make sure to keep an eye on him, Liam.”  

Now alone with the boy, “Liam,” in response to his comment about his incapacitation, Derek made an unsuccessful effort to adopt a more dignified pose. This didn't really happen, however.

Rolling over on all fours, he tried to push himself up.  After several attempts, he was able to raise himself up off the ground, though he wobbled dizzily like a newborn colt.  

Head throbbing fiercely, he worried the way his limbs were protesting that they would not be able to maintain even this humble posture. Closing his eyes he breathed slowly, until at last he felt stable.  

Throughout this Liam watched him, scooting a bit closer when Derek seemed about ready to topple over again. He looked as though he might reach out to steady him but hesitated at the last minute clearly fearful of getting too close, now that they were alone.  

Instead, he turned and fumbled around behind him. When he finally faced Derek again, his hands contained a cloth-covered bowl. He pulled the cloth back and awkwardly held out a dish of cold porridge.

“Eat.” Liam encouraged as one would to an infant. Derek stared up at the boy through his bangs, irritated: he was not a child.

“Piss,” He growled, and was taken almost as much by surprise as his young guard, at the harshness of the word as it barked out of his sore throat.  

Liam drew back, almost dropping the dish.  

“Piss,” Derek repeated in a gentler tone. Seeing the boy still didn't understand Derek raised shaking hands to massage his pounding forehead, he added. “Please, I really need to take a piss.”

Understanding dawned on Liam’s face. “Oh...”

He set the porridge to the side and turned around again rummaging among what was now clearly a pile of things behind him. Derek took this moment to rearrange the thin sheet that was his only covering.  Weakly, he pulled it up so that it draped low across his hips, obscuring his lower half.  

Generally, his nakedness did not bother him, living in the village left one with little need for modesty: the attitude about such things was very casual. But here in this vulnerable state in front of the robed boy, still not remembering the details of how he’d gotten there, he found himself disconcerted.  

If Liam had noticed Derek’s nakedness or his sudden modesty, he at least had the courtesy not to comment on it.  Instead, the crippled boy pushed a large clay pot towards Derek with both his hands. Still keeping his distance, he nudged the vessel forward to where his prisoner could reach it.

Derek took the vessel and positioned it under himself. The sheet slipped off as he fought to stay steady while he grabbed his cock and directed it downwards into the pot.

Cheeks flushed at the humiliation of not being able to stand and piss properly, as bad as he needed to urinate, with the boy openly staring at him, it took a minute for his bladder to relax enough to let go.

When it did, at last,  the sense of relief was overwhelming.  Clearly, his bladder had been almost to the point of bursting. The force of his stream hit the basin like a torrent. Being so close to it, hot drops of urine splashed up, soaking his lower belly. Derek’s blush burned hotter at the mess he was making of himself.

When he had at last finished, Derek pushed the now brimming bowl back towards Liam. The boy took it and gazed at its contents thoughtfully.

“No blood, that’s a good sign, you must have the bladder of a horse… you’ve been asleep for almost three days, you know.”

Taking this information in, the simple act of pissing had exhausted him and he felt like he could easily sleep for three more.  Derek collapsed carefully back onto his stomach.

His young guard took a flask from under his robe and poured it into a wooden mug. Now that Derek was down again, he seemed more at ease and brave enough to slip forward and place the cup directly beside to him.

Raising himself slightly, Derek took it and sniffed its contents cautiously.  His throat was desperately parched.

“Drink it,” his warden ordered. Then he added, “it has herbs that will help you clear your mind and regain your strength.”

Eying the cup with suspicion a few moments longer, until his thirst overwhelmed his apprehension, finally, Derek raised it to his bruised lips and took a small sip. Once it hit his tongue he began gulping the liquid down in earnest. It was like a sweet tea and surprisingly, wonderfully, cool. When he finished the draught, he pushed the mug back and then lay his head down again, rolling slightly on his side.

The burning of his abused throat abated almost immediately and, to his great relief, the throbbing in his temples began to recede.

Bolstered by the drink, he wrapped his right hand around the tether connected to one of his wrist and gave it a pull. Once again weighing his weakened state against the solidity of the restraint, he sighed.

“Yes, about that,” Liam’s blue eyes flashed, his youthful face chagrined, “It was ordered. But...,” he went on quickly, “See how carefully Isaac and I wrapped your wrists and ankles so that you could not further damage yourself? And,” he added, with no small pride, “the marks from before are fading very quickly.

“Isaac and I have been have been alternating our herbs.”

Liam dropped his gaze and a flush crept into his pale cheeks. “Ahh, your other injuries...” He waved a hand at Derek’s draped lower half, “also seem to be healing remarkably well.”

Now it was Derek’s turn to be embarrassed that this boy knew about his private aches… What’s more that he’d apparently been tending to them.  Fresh heat rose to his face and left his ears burning.

Before he could respond, the entrance flap to the tent opened and another boy, just slightly younger, peered shyly in. Immediately, Derek’s apparent nurse brightened. “Danny, come in and see the  General’s wolf. He is finally awake.”

The golden-skinned boy made no move to enter. Instead he shook his head slowly, his huge, dark eyes, never once leaving the captive. Liam leaned in slightly towards Derek and whispered, “Stiles told Danny that you were part wolf.” He pointed at Derek’s tattooed arm bands. “He told him that was why we had to move into another tent while he was taming you and that this is why you had to be tied.”

“Taming me?”

At those words Derek clambered up again as much as he was able, despite the rush of dizziness that accompanied his movement. This response was apparently too much for the frightened Danny, who immediately disappeared from view, the entrance to the tent rippling with the rapidity of his departure.  

Before Derek could demand further explanation of this peculiar phrasing the cover of the tent entrance was suddenly raised once more. Danny stood there again, only this time he was holding onto the sleeve of another figure.

When Derek looked up and saw the veil, his breath left him and his world was set spinning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at last and hoping to resume the Monday update of one at least one of my fics every week.
> 
> I know this story is kind of slow going, but thanks for hanging with me.
> 
> See you next week if not before.


	9. Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've heard your gentle urging, Sara. So for you and the lovely anon who hit my inbox this morning, here's a new chapter.
> 
> Hoping to get back to a regular updating schedule soon. My next show opens in a couple weeks and after that, I'll be pouring my creative energies back into my fics.
> 
> So to you and everyone else who's been waiting... Thanks for your patience.

**** At the sight of the veil, images from the previous days came rushing back. Dazed by the visions Derek tried to rise but his ties constrained him.  Whole body aching he swayed unsteadily. Caught in an awkward crouch as a result he longed to be able to raise a hand to rub the throbbing at his temples; their pounding reignited by the flood of memories.  

His “rememberings” were often like this, leaving him shaking and unmoored. 

In the wake of such moments, he sometimes lost other memories. And, at least once that he knew of, Derek had forgotten himself completely.  This was the case when the wolf clan’s hunters had first found him: he’d been wandering the edge of the forest with the mind of a babe, barely able to speak. 

Today though there was no such loss unfortunately. This would have been a blessed reprieve but instead, Derek remembered mostly everything now: the nightmare visions of his village’s destruction, his capture, his humiliating preparation at the hands of his conquerors. Coupled with memories of the feast, he was overwhelmed. The pain flooding his bound body and his soul and the utter humiliation of what had happened sent him reeling. 

Unable to keep himself righted under the onslaught he toppled backwards, sitting down hard.  While rage sent his heart racing and made his breathing labored, shame immobilized the rest of him. Derek watched  as the veiled “Stiles” entered, Danny shadowing him worriedly, Isaac following in behind close on their heels.

He could tell by the expression in Stiles’ eyes now that the youth had known exactly what was going to happen when he’d sent his tray out of the preparation tent. Cheeks red and ears burning in mortified fury Derek hung his head, unable to meet Stiles’ gaze or raise a hand in anger.  

Stiles, however, seemed oblivious to his conflict. Instead, he spoke firmly but warmly to the boys around him.  He motioned towards the full piss pot. “Isaac, please carry that away? Danny, help Liam. Get his crutch and the two of you go down by the stream. 

“I saw your sisters there gathering reeds and I am uncomfortable with them being away from the tent for too long.  

“No long faces now, Danny. You know I’ll come and see you tonight as soon as I am done with my duties.” 

Although he spoke with a heavy accent, Stiles said this in the forest tongue so Derek understood him. Derek watched, amazed to see all three boys, despite their obviously different bloods clearly had no difficulty understanding either. 

“Liam and Isaac, your healing has been very effective and I thank you for taking care of our master’s wolf so reliably.” Despite the formalness of the words, both boys flushed, obviously pleased by the praise.

In the midst of this, Derek recovered his voice if not his wits. “Derek,” he said hoarsely, still fighting to control the complex emotions roiling inside him.

“Eh?” Stiles looked down, verbally acknowledging him for the first time since he’d entered the room. 

“My name is Derek, not ‘Wolf’ and I belong to no one but myself.”

Stiles cocked his head in consideration of this information. WIth his face covered by the veil the expression in his eyes was hard to decipher. After a long moment, his head tipped back to its normal post and he gestured to the boys, “Liam, Danny, Isaac, would you please leave and allow ‘Derek’ and I a chance to get better acquainted?” 

Immediately, though they did not seem overly pleased about it,  the trio shuffled obediently out. 

Once the boys were gone, their leader squatted down in the spot Derek’s forest guard/nurse Liam, had just vacated.  Alone now, Derek found he was still having difficulty looking at Stiles. His shame at the situation he found himself in overwhelming. At the same time, for some reason, being close to the veiled youth made  every part of his body suddenly feel flushed and uncomfortably aroused. These new sensations a source of fresh embarrassment. 

Studying Derek intently, his new warden seemed to have somehow read his internal struggle.  Stiles looked away for a moment in solemn consideration and then reached up and slowly removed the small cap from his head. The veil came away with it. 

Looking down, away from his captive, he set his cap and veil aside and went on to  loosen the tie cinching his tunic. Gingerly he pulled down the shoulder of his garment and slipped out his left arm. 

Confused by these actions, Derek glanced up. His gaze met Stiles’ and he saw his own vulnerability reflected within the pools of the other’s startling amber eyes.  This lasted for only a second, however, before Stiles’ eyes hardened. 

Without saying anything, Stiles continued to disrobe.

As he did, Derek sat transfixed staring at the young man across from him. He had glimpsed Stiles’ face prior to the Commander’s feast as he was about to be carried away, but still this did not prepare him for what he saw before him now. 

Had he been unmarred, Derek would have easily deemed the boy not handsome, he was too fine for that. But beautiful would have fit him.  This made the contrast of unblemished flesh with the terrible burn marks that ravaged the left side of Stiles’ face even more appalling. 

The mottled, flame-kissed skin started high on his left cheekbone; it followed the curve of his cheek just missing a lovely mouth, and extended all the way down his swan-like neck. The flow of the damage was caught by the dam of Stiles’ collarbone, but it swelled up and onto his shoulder to then run all the way down the outside of his left arm. 

Tearing his eyes away from Stiles’ face, Derek noted that today the braid he’d noticed at the base of the young man’s otherwise closely-cropped head was wrapped around his damaged left arm and that the finely-boned hand grasping its wisped end was absent its last two fingers. 

Stiles waited patiently for Derek to weather the shock of his appearance. When Derek seemed to have regained some of his composure he stood, his garment left in a pool at his feet.

Derek blushed furiously at Stile’s naked. Outside his face and left arm, the rest of his captor was flawless. Broad shouldered and slender hipped, his light skin was freckled with lovely moles stretched tight over a leanly muscled frame. The boy’s nipples were pierced with tiny barbells and his cock was pierced as well, a heavy ring adorning the head. 

Though not fully aroused, Stiles’ dick was hardening, even at half mast, though not overly thick it was long already.

Moving about had truly awakened the ache in Derek’s abused ass. Stiles’ cock seeming to take an interest in him sent a wisp of fear curling tight in his gut. There was much the boy could do him trussed in this vulnerable position. Heavier than his fear however, it was shame that weighted his low belly: Derek had no desire to be raped again, or even touched for that matter, but something in the sight of his captor’s revealed flesh, marred or not, was causing his own dick to fill.

“If you haven’t realized it already, my name is Stiles.” 

Stiles slipped around to the stake securing the bonds to Derek’s left wrist. He loosened it, though he made sure to keep his leverage so his captive couldn’t pull away. Winding the loosened rope carefully he increased the tension of Derek’s bonds until his body had to follow. 

“You, however, will only refer to me as ‘sir’.”

“And though I’d called you  _ Derek _ in front of the boys a moment ago, I won’t say it again. You should get used to your new name,  _ Wolf.  _ Because contrary to what you said earlier… You are no longer master of yourself and do indeed belong to someone else now.”

The cocky way he said this filled Derek with rage but he held his tongue, green eyes tracking Stiles as he moved over to the stake tethering his other arm. This time, however, the moment it was loosed he did his best to rip his arm away. Unfortunately Stiles seemed to have anticipated this and pulled back with equal vigor. 

The result was Derek flat on his back, his arm held taut above his head.

“You have been chosen by our master, the General, Deucalion.” Stiles secured the tie and then slipped with a feline grace down to the stake holding Derek’s left ankle. 

“You maybe remember him. Maybe not. Regardless, he took a liking to you last night. Enough that he’s decided to keep you as his new pet.”

Derek grunted in discomfort when, at the word “pet”, Stiles gave the tie at his ankle a jerk that sent a ripple of pain up his leg to pool in his bruised hips.

“It’s a great honor he’s bestowed on you. You should feel privileged.”

Stiles looked up from his tying at the sound of Derek hawking just in time to see a glob of spit land six inches away from one of his bare feet. 

Clearly Derek disagreed with him. There was fire in the wolf’s green eyes and heat in his cheeks. Stiles ignored this and swept his good hand over the packed dirt gathering up Deucalion’s new dog’s spittle. He leaned over and wiped it on Derek’s heaving chest and continued.

“The commander is a busy man. So until there’s a break in schedule he’s placed you under my care.” 

Long fingers swirled the dirty spit over Derek’s denuded chest before they swept over and caught the brown bud of one of his nipples. The way the Wolf gasped as it was pinched sent a shiver down Stiles’ spine. He kept the reddening nub caught between his fingertips watching Derek’s face contort. The muscles ticing in his jaw as he fought crying out.

“I’m to train you in the interim.” He left off tormenting Derek’s chest to pick up small flask set at the base of his captive’s pallet. “Mold you into a suitable pet for our master.”

Pouring oil from the flask into his palm Stiles reached over and grabbed Derek’s semi-roused cock. 

“His standards are quite high, so you should be prepared for our time together to be rigorous.”

Derek’s head tipped back, his eyes squeezed shut when Stiles grease-filled hand palmed his cock’s head and then slid down his shaft beginning to stroke it. Already half hard it sprang to life instantly.

Stiles looked down at the man at his mercy. He had intuited Derek might be moved by men, given his reaction at the carts to Ennis, but it could have just been the heat of battle then. That happened sometimes, he knew. But he fervently hoped that the wolf preferred a bitch to a stud and that last night had been Derek’s first taste of men. Anything to make life harder for the pet who would be taking his place at his master’s side. He said as much too.

“Now, I don’t know what you fancy, wolf… Not that it matters anymore, since your inclinations from here on out are whatever your master says they are.” He pumped his hand quickly, rolling it over the sensitive head of Derek’s cock in an insidiously delicious manner.

“Boys or girls, or goats…whatever... “  

That caught Derek’s attention, Stiles stared hard back into the green gaze filled with fear and fury.

“What I am doing to you here. This first lesson we’re having. I recommend you enjoy it. Because this cock belongs to your new master too, as much as the rest of you and I doubt very seriously he’s going to have much use for it.”

There was no way any of this was acceptable. Derek bucked his hips up, trying to shift out from the hot slick grasp around him. He wanted to shout at Stiles to release him but something strange had taken hold of his body. It had started even before this molestation, the second Stiles’ finger made contact with his skin. 

“This cock, these balls...” The slick hand slid down and stroked Derek’s sac, still tender from being so thoroughly emptied the night before. Derek gritted his teeth as his testes were rolled and pressed together, while Stiles chattered on. 

“Every inch of this flesh. Your mouth, your ass.”

Straining against his bonds Derek’s body arched up. He bit back a cry when an oiled finger traced his abused hole. Healing potions or not, his rim was still puffy and over-sensitive from all it had endured at the feast.

“This all belongs to our master now. Your master. To use however and whenever he deems fit.”

Derek had experienced many “encounters” living among the wolf clan and was no stranger to intimate touch, but nothing in his experiences prior had ever lit up his senses like the violating fingers trespassing his flesh right now. Even so, Stiles’ words were of equal assault to the hand tracing his asshole.

Despite this, the terrible things being said and the pain that sang at his entrance, Derek’s body eagerly responded. He fought against the fire raging in his flesh but it was a losing battle. His cock was an iron rod, the oiled head drooling a string of clear longing. Derek couldn’t help the heaviness of his breath, the low growling groans churning in his throat. 

The bucking away from Stiles’ hand quickly shifting to bucking into. Stiles seemed to immediately note the difference and dropped Derek’s cock, a moment later to delivering a smart slap to the bobbing erection.

“No! You don’t get to move!” 

The command was followed with another slap, this time to the inside of a trembling thigh. Derek hissed at the sting but was grateful the pain had restored some sense in him. Losing himself in this erotic horror would be of no help. He was going to need to stay alert if he was going to escape. 

Once Stiles knew he had his captive’s attention he resumed their lesson. But he did not take up touching again.

Instead he poured some more oil onto his  hand. He rubbed this over his own chest, fingers lightly twisting the bars in his nipples. The neglected nubs hardened immediately. Stiles growled, putting on a show, knowing he had the confused Barbarian’s full attention now.

“You don’t get to move.” Stiles repeated. His voice lower, rougher as the pleasure of his own touch set fire to his senses. “Not unless your master want you to. You don’t do anything without his permission. “You don’t move, you don’t speak, you don’t come.”

While his damaged hand drifted around behind him, oiled fingers teasing his cleft, Stiles took up his cock with his good hand. Then he turned around and set himself on his heels, legs bent in a low crouch. His balls were high and tight. The spread of his thighs pulled his muscular ass open.

Perplexed by his captor’s antics, Derek couldn’t look away. Stiles bare ass bobbed in front of him and it only took a moment for him to realize there was something in Stiles’ hole. 

Looking over to make sure he still had Derek’s attention Stiles shifted his grips, now the oiled fingers of his good hand began to worked the plump leather plug he wore.  

It was so confusing, the way Stiles moved him. Even with his scarred countenance, watching his captor carefully fucking himself with the plug, working his ass open, the sight set Derek’s blood on fire. Hot and heavy, tied as he was, his hard cock jutted up and back, steadily dribbling fluid onto his low belly. 

_ This shouldn’t be happening.  _

He wondered if the water he’d drak hand been drugged after all. 

When the plug was finally pulled out, the oil Stiles had flushed inside himself earlier in preparation gushed out of the pink gape of his ass. He threw the leather knot to the side and crawled over to straddle Derek’s thick, splayed thighs.

He caught both their cocks and held them between his hands, holding Derek’s dick in place as he pumped his hips. Derek threw his head back growling at the friction as Stiles fucked against his cock.

“What are you?... “

Stiles dropped their shafts, and slapped Derek’s heaving belly hard. 

“I did not give you permission to speak. So just shut your furry muzzle and stay still.”

Derek glared and growled but apparently this was tolerable, for now, since no more blows fell. Instead Stiles shifted his body until he squatted over Derek.  Pressing his fat cockhead against his opened entrance Stiles humped his himself back, working the shaft into him. His scarred face twisted in a grimace at the initial stretch: Derek’s cock was long and its girth substantial. Finally, pushing out with his ass it popped inside his rim.

Mouth forming an astounded “O” Derek couldn’t protest. Not because of Stiles’ order but because he lost access to his words when his cock kissed the hot silk of his captor’s inner walls. He gasped as Stiles seated himself, and then began to pulse. 

Lifting and lowering himself on Derek’s fat cock, Stiles had to bite back a whimper. It felt so good to have something in his ass after so long without. The fullness, the pressure.  He bet his master had never envisioned his former pet using his new one like this. The thought filled his low belly with a sticky, black kind of contentment.

Grabbing onto full pecs, scrabbling with oily fingers, Stiles held on, bracing himself as he fucked Derek. He clenched and tightened his channel with skills learned in hours of training, milking the cock inside him with every slip and grind. 

Staring into stunned green eyes, he growled, “Our general has decided to call you his wolf. But others will have different names for you.”

Stiles closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see the face of the one replacing him. Settling down, taking the thick rod deeply in he rocked, imagining it was his master he was astride, not some muscled curr.

“They’ll call you… Bitch

“Hole…

“The master’s slut…”

As each word fell from his lips Stiles heard them in Deucalion’s voice. It sent a shiver down his spine and a lightning spark into his cock. 

“Whore…”

“Cocksucker”

“And they’ll be right.” 

Stiles shuddered finding the place where Derek’s cock fit just right and picked up his pace. Sweat dripped down his chest and slicked his belly as he writhed, pleasuring his prostate. He took his weeping cock in his damaged hand and stroked. Missing its last two fingers the claw-like grip stripped his shaft, the feeling so different from a normal hand just adding perversely to his pleasure.

“Soon you’ll be all these things and more... Whatever your master makes of you.”

“You’ll live and die on the General’s command and on his cock.”

With these words Stiles came, painting Derek’s chest in thin watery spurts that reached all  the way up to his chest. As he released, his ass clenched. 

Derek was so close, his stomach filled with the buzz of impending orgasm. He just needed a little more friction. He wanted to thrust up into the heated grip surrounding him but with the weight of Stiles’ body atop him and the way he was tied all ability to buck had been lost. He was so close toppling over the precipice into pleasure he bit back a curse as Stiles pulled up off him and stood, cock slipping from his ass with a squelch.

“Oh no,  _ Wolf _ . I didn’t give you permission to come.”

Eyes closed against Stiles words, Derek’s dark head thunked back on the ground. Aching balls tight and begging to spill, cock still leaking… At the frustration of this, tears slipped past his lowered lids and ran down his cheeks. 

This only lasted, however, until something hot, wet, and pungent splashed over his torso. Derek’s eyes popped open with a start. Stiles still stood over him and was now pissing on him, adding his stream to the cum on his stomach.

Once his flow petered out Stiles redonned his tunic.  As he dressed he hummed, “That’s the end of lesson one. And just so you know, there’s nothing we’ll be doing from here on out that’s about your pleasure. Not until your master’s pleasure becomes your own.”

He pulled his cap on and adjusted his veil. 

“The sooner you learn this the better off we’ll all be. You in particular, I suppose.”

And with that Stiles slipped out the tent leaving his master’s sullied new pet to reflect on this while he marinated in the stuff of his new status.

 


End file.
